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ms-march · 3 months

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TURN WEEK: Medieval AU Crossover with SS:SP!

Why haven’t I been writing LBL recently ( for about year really) you ask? This is why. This AU has occupied so much space in my head it is so banger if I ever to get around to writing more of it TRUST you all will see it. @tallmadgeandtea and I have been going insane over a TURN crossover medieval au for a while now & Yes, that is Ser Harwin Stong as a FC for Thaddeus Kosciusko. 😅

Her head was spinning. It had been for days. Weeks even. She had not been able to consume food that didn’t leave her feeling nauseous for days. He started to make her join him in eating. It was the only way he could ensure she did not starve herself.

The capital had been taken days ago, and the new king and his court of traitors had occupied the rooms that did not belong to them since they arrived. Andre was dead. She knew that. No one would tell her, not the guards at the door of the apartments she resided in, not George, whose rooms she stayed in instead of her own for safety. She had not heard from nor seen Ban since this wanna-be king had arrived. With Andre dead, he was king. With Andre dead, she was the closest thing to a Queen Consort they had. This had been the status quo for weeks now.

The engaged pair were kept in separate wings of the castle. Not a word to be exchanged between them.

Thinking of it made her sick to her stomach.

It made her head spin.

George would not answer any of her questions. She would go mad with questions. Or she would go mad with fear. She still wore her fiance's engagement ring and donned dresses of Fairfax green and the deep blood red of the royal household as any Queen Consort should. George wore a horrible blue at each one of their meals. The sight nauseated her. It made her head spin. Adrienne had been so used to seeing him donned in royal military red, a Colonel in the army they had slaughtered. She was distressed by the blue. It wasn’t just George’s clothes. It was the banners in the courtyard—the guards at the gate.

All of it. It made her head spin.

And George watched her, carefully, like she was still on strings, like she might try to dash out the door or toss herself from a window. It nauseated her, this illusion of freedom. She didn’t wear shackles, yet. How long would it be? Another week? A few days? The waiting would make her go mad.

That commotion in the courtyard would make her go mad. What on earth could these people be doing now?

Adrienne made her way from the sofa, abandoning her embroidery in its hoop, leaving George there to pretend he was reading a book whose page he hadn’t flipped in fifteen minutes. The silence of the sitting room, the lack of conversation between them, allowed her to hear the commotion happening outside the window below her. She had not expected the sight before her when she approached the window. She had not accounted for any such thing, for surely, as Kingmaker, George would attend any kind of execution, any kind of formal state toppling.

Was that why he had been unable to read his book? The knowledge of death?

Was that the reason for his silence? Was he ashamed? Was he too cowardly to tell her? Did he fear it would escape if he uttered a sound?

Adrienne’s head was spinning. It had been for days. Weeks even.

Were her ears ringing?

She was sick to her stomach again at the sight in the courtyard before her. Banastre was in the courtyard in simple black wool. In chains. The Prince—no, he was the King now— in chains, and an executioner's block at the end of his path. She saw the sword in a black figure’s hands. Oh God, they were going to kill him.

Oh God, she was going to be sick.

Adrienne’s feet wouldn’t move, though. Her eyes couldn’t be torn from Tarleton, no matter how desperately she wanted to look away. She couldn’t do anything but watch. It nauseated her. Her head was spinning. Her ears were ringing.

She almost didn’t hear the dull thud of the sword on the block when it cut through his neck.

George called out to her before the second stroke. His command for her to come away from the window fell on her ears like an echo. She made no association between the man in the room with her and the words that were being ordered. He made his way to her side, grimacing at the sight in the courtyard of the severed head of a boy he knew. He reached out to her hand, which had gripped his curtains as though it was life or death for her. He had to pry the fabric from her fingers. He had to pretend it was fine.

How could she do that?

Adrienne was horrified. She had seen her fiance’s head hacked off his shoulders, and she hadn’t been blessed enough to faint at the sight of it. She felt faint. She felt nauseous. She felt like she was crying. She was in shock. Adrienne was horrified. Horrified at the scene in the courtyard. Horrified at the death of her intended. Horrified at George and all the other traitors who had allowed this to happen. Horrified that she would soon be next. When George finally pried her fingers from the curtains, Adrienne began to be conscious of her panic. Her fear. Her tears.

“Why would they do that,” Adrienne whispered as George pulled her feet from before the window, her voice becoming more hysteric the more she spoke, “Why would you do that? Why allow him to die?”

George had served a different banner than that horrible blue for the longest time. What had changed in this man she thought she knew, that he would allow the heir he knew since the heir was but a child to die. What had become of the man she knew? What would become of her if he would not have qualm with killing Banastre? Was she next? She had to be. Tarelton had been king, heir apparent, and she the closest thing left to Queen Consort there was. Would they behead her too? Or would she be tortured? Assaulted? Which would kill her easier? Which would be most painless?

“He is more just,” was all George could give as a poor excuse for his betrayal and his cowardice, “He is better. He won his contest-“

“How could you allow this madness?” Adrienne was going to go mad before they killed her. The shock and the fear were enough to do that. She was afraid. How could he claim the servant boy to be just?

“He is more just-“

“Is this just?” Adrienne questioned, her tone harsh among its distress, “Was that Justice?”

“Adrienne-“

“How is that Justice?” She exclaimed, “He has done nothing-”

“You know why it had to be done.” George said solemnly, wrapping her hysterical figure in his arms, “He will be just, and he will be fair, and he will be better.”

Better.

This was a cruel, sick jest. Better? How could the man before her, so clearly lost, know which boy—neither who had ever ruled—would be better of a King? The man before her was a coward. A traitor. And-

“Dear God.” she whispered, disgusted, “Your treachery nauseates me.”

“It is no longer treachery.”

With him dead, George was right. There was no man he was treasonous to. No man remained breathing to make such accusations. Adrienne’s head was spinning, her nausea overtaking her, causing her to stumble into a chair.

“Yes, it is” she replied distantly, shocked and stunned into near silence at his blatant disregard, “You can lie to yourself all you’d like. It won’t make your deeds less heinous, your treachery more justified.”

“Adrienne-“

“You killed him! He’s done nothing, and you killed him!!”

God, she was going to be sick.

She was going to die here like this. Her nausea would overwhelm her, and it would never cease till she too was lifeless, blood at the corners of her mouth, like Tarleton. Like Andre. Adrienne felt the bile rise to her throat, but the only thing that came out was the burning tears of acid rolling painfully down her face. It was too much. The sensation of the tears, the bile in her throat, the scene in the courtyard, George's terrible, awful blue that was everywhere she looked all the time. The sound of the chains through the window, the horrible thud the block made when the sword made contact with it, better. It was enough to drive anyone mad.

It would drive her mad.

Could she breathe? Why couldn’t she breathe?

Would this be the thing to kill her? Was that their plan? She would go mad—go into shock—at such a gory sight that she would stop breathing. The servant king’s hands would be clean of her blood. Could George have lived with it? If George hadn’t pulled her away from the window, would she have jumped?

Did she say something?

George was speaking to her, trying to calm her, trying to soothe her panic, her fear, and her rage. She couldn't breathe. Had she been choking out words this whole time?

She had choked out a terrified plea to be spared. She had choked out an angry accusation that they will kill her. George called for guards, he was becoming old in age and with Adrienne’s body doing as it pleased with no regard for her wishes, he could not wrangle her to her room alone. She did not want guards. The clamor of the armor and the chainmail was too much like the sound of cuffed chains.

It was too overwhelming.

Adrienne’s head was spinning. Her ears rang. Tears spilled down her cheeks like acid rain. She couldn’t breathe. She was nauseous. God, she was going to be sick.

Adrienne stayed like that for a few days. A week maybe. Possibly more. Crying, sick to her stomach, and silent. She rarely uttered a word. George would try to speak to her but to no avail. She did not want his words. She wanted to go home, away from here. She wanted to know what was happening. George could give her neither.

He still tried to keep her spirit up. He still made sure he knew when, how much, and of what she ate. Occasionally he would send in one of his traitors. Foreigners, usually.

Some faces she knew, others she had never seen. It made no difference. She glowered in silence at both. She had no plan of associating with traitors and murderers alike. She would not stoop so low. Her anger—her fury—at their deeds would not let her.

She only ate out of fear. She never finished out of fear, too.

She could not starve herself, that much she knew. George would never allow it. Her death—whenever it was to come—had to be at the pretender King’s hand. It had to be political. It had to be “morally” right.

She had no agency here.

She would rather eat and risk poison than be subjected to having meals force-fed to her. She would not be manhandled by these people.

She wanted to go home.

Her head was pounding, and when it wasn’t pounding, it was spinning, making her feel faint and nauseous. Her bedroom door creaked open, and she did not even blink at it. She had already eaten breakfast today. Was George dissatisfied with what she had eaten? Had he come to stuff food down her throat? Or had they come to take her to the execution block next? Or would they make her await death in prison?

“Lady Fairfax,” it was William Lee, George’s manservant. Was there a different option she had failed to consider? William had always been too polite. Had he been sent to poison her? Would he apologize to her before he did it? “The Baron wishes to see you in his office.”

The Baron. George.

The traitor had an office.

The traitor joined with murderers for an office.

“I do not wish to see him,” she croaked, “Do tell him such. I have already eaten today, I cannot stomach a traitor.”

“I am sorry, my lady," he said, giving her the apology she had been waiting for, “But I have orders not to accept any answer declining his wish.”

The Baron. He had been a Sir before they chopped off Tarelton’s head. He had betrayed every one of his friends and his country—he had become Kingmaker—all for an additional room and a singular title raise. Coward. He had sent his manservant to collect her for a purpose he likely did not specify to William. He was not brave enough to do it himself. Coward.

William offered her his hand to help her up from the chaise she sat on, and—having no other choice—she took it. “You must forgive me, my lady,” he said to her as they made their way out to the hallway, a place Adrienne had not entered since she was brought to George's apartments, where they met an escort of guards. Armored and armed. That horrible clink of the chainmail on their bodies set her on edge. “It was insisted upon,” William explained, “By His Grace’s counsel. You are not going to be harmed, I will be traveling with you.” It put her on edge, that godforsaken clinking sound.

It was reassuring not to be alone now.

“You speak like we are traveling cross-country, William,” Adrienne said quietly, “It is only down a few halls.”

Halls she knew well, but could not help but feel like they were new. The tapestries of triumphs and banners and shields of red and gold that had once decorated them were gone, replaced by blue and white and silver at every turn. The suits of armor had been polished, and the weaponry removed. Was that because of her? Or were there others they worried about? Who remained alive still?

The fresh air and exercise of their walk should have made her nausea go away, but it made no effect. The hallways were nearly empty, and the horrible clanking of metal and their feet on the stone floor was the only thing to be heard echoing off the walls. Even the traitors were afraid of their actions. The deposition of a King in such a manner would not go unnoticed by the God who placed him there. Did these cowards fear God more than their servant King? Did they stay because they feared his hand too much to run? Or did they stay because they feared God’s power outside these walls of stone? They would bring down the walls on all who inhabit the castle eventually. God's wrath cannot be hidden from.

Her wrath made her nauseous. Which was worse: the deserted hallways that traitors were too scared to show their faces in that she was now faced with or entering into a bustling hall of celebrators? Which should she prefer?

Her stomach would have neither. Adrienne’s head was spinning, and when it wasn’t spinning, it was pounding. She hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, was that why she felt faint?

The company stopped in front of a solid door upon which one of the men rapped upon before opening it and ushering Adrienne and William inside. They did not enter with them, but rather waited. The group would seemingly push on. The Baron’s office was not their final destination after all. What a peculiar death march this was. She wondered how her death would come. What method would this questionable King use? Was he the sadist kind? Would he see her body mutilated by methods of torture till it could take no more? Or was he merciful? Adrienne doubted it was the latter. She had witnessed what the mongrel had done to Tarelton, like it or not.

“Ah,” George spoke, looking up at her as William ushered her through a second door, behind which George sat behind a desk of solid oak, “Adrienne. Please, come in, take a seat.”

The Baron.

The very thought nauseated her. She was going to be sick from this wicked display.

“George, or ought I to greet you as a Baron now?“ she said, moving her skirts to sit with grace as if she had not spent the morning staring at the pattern of the carpet in her room. As if there had been no war and this was a social call. As if her side of the war had not most recently lost. “It is a minor promotion for the Kingmaker, but I am sure you will make do.”

“How kind,” the man behind the desk replied dryly, ��but I would have us discuss other things. Things more pertinent and pressing.” George stood up, walking to the large series of windows streaming light into the room as he continued without waiting for her response. “You must surely know by now that your world will be quite different from now on,” he began, stating the most obvious of things he could have. She wanted to know different- how. How would her life be different? What had happened? She wanted answers, and the pair had sat in silence for weeks because he could not provide her with any. He had not been permitted. What had changed?

“Have you summoned me to report my father’s death now?” Adrienne asked. It was very reasonable. Very logical. Life without her father—without the protection of his title and his peerage—would be most different indeed. So many had fled or been killed. Had he joined in their numbers? “Or have I been summoned so you may inform me that I am to be next?”

They would kill her eventually. She knew it.

Banastre had his head hacked off for his birth. Adrienne’s could very well be next.

“Neither,” George replied, ignoring the bite in her tone, “Though this has some to do with your father.”

“It does?”

“There was a ransom posted for you,” he continued, turning around to look at her like her head was not spinning like her ears were not ringing, “A tribute.”

Ransom. Tribute.

Tarleton had been parted from this world for crimes against this new King she too had committed—the engagement band of gold and the ruby resting upon it that still resided on her hand vouched for that. Yet he had been killed, and she remained untouched.

Her head was spinning, and the words rang in her ears like echoes in the abandoned halls of this once-bustling castle. “Then I am to be returned to him?” Adrienne asked, “Safely?”

And he stopped before he spoke. Paused. Hesitated. “Not quite.”

Adrienne wanted answers. All she had wanted for weeks was answers. She wanted to know what was happening. She still did not understand what was happening. Even now, and it infuriated her.

“What do you mean?”

“Your father gave His Grace a counteroffer to tribute.” George spoke hesitantly, lowering himself into the chair behind the desk once more, “You.”

Adrienne’s head was spinning, and she was nauseous. God, she was going to be sick. Was this room spinning? Poison would be a better date. Choking on her own bile would be kinder than being sold like a calf at market to the highest bidder. Was this new King a masochist? Or was he truly so heinous and odiously appearing that such a proposition would be accepted?

“He would-“ she stuttered, shocked, “He would offer me as a wife-”

“Not a wife, no,” George clarified quickly, causing her heart to sink and confusion to flood her mind once more. “Your Father’s own words were: “a servant for a servant” if I remember correctly.”

It was clever of him—the analogy. A servant for a servant. It was so clever she almost overlooked its severity.

“He would sell me off as a servant?” She asked, disgust and anger pulling her from shock and horror, “For the man who so slaughtered my fiancé? For the traitors who now run this court?”

God, she was going to be sick. She felt faint, and the room had not ceased spinning. George had sold his country out for an additional room and a singular promotion of title. Adrienne’s father—Sir William Fairfax of Denton, Yorkshire, Dorothy Gale, and Cameron, it would be a tale to say the titles and riches were not many—had sold his family off for what? What had he been offered for her humiliation? How could he have taken it?

“He has been offered full political immunity in return,” the Baron said, nearly reading her mind, pleading with her to be understanding. This is politics. People do what they must. Adrienne could expect no protection from her father. Politics were to be her lifeline now. This King would now decide her fate.

“His Grace has been kind and merciful enough to preserve your title and peerage for the protection it will give you in this court,” he began, “You will be presented to his grace, and you will kiss his ring. Bow before him. You will address him as Your Grace. You will show deference as befits a King.”

A King who had killed her fiance. A King who has slaughtered his ruler in cold blood. A King upon whom God would one day settle his wrath upon. The thought of being made to bow before him brought the sensation of tears to her eyes. It brought a flush of embarrassment to her cheeks.

“And how much more humiliation am I to suffer before you finally do something?”

Had George not been the one to ride ahead of them all and collect her under the cover of night? Had he not taken her to his rooms for safety and kept this King's guards from entering through his door for her? Had George not been the one to pry her horrified fingers from the curtains and grimace at the sight she had witnessed? Had he not this far protected her at every turn? Why would he now see her publically humiliated? To what end was this cause determined?

“You will not speak so freely,” was all he could muster. An admonishment. Pitiful.

She was a woman. Adrienne was familiar with the limitations of her sex. In the previous court, she had been its princess. They had not applied to her then.

“When must I be presented like tribute upon a platter before this council of traitors?” She replied, paying his criticism no heed. He was a coward. The whole of them were Godless cowards and would one day die such deaths.

“Now,” he said firmly, gesturing to the room she had just come from before the hallway. “You will make yourself presentable—I have had your things brought here, and your maidservant sent for,” he said, picking up a pile of papers, “The king wishes to see this famous beauty of yours he has heard so very much talked about. It was heard of him even off the continent: the beauty of the English Princess.”

Flattery.

Coward.

She knew she was talked of. Her beauty bordered on legendary. Emissaries would often come to court raving over the tales of her beauty. It was part of her appeal to Tarleton. It was part of her duties as a Princess—even if she was only a Princess to be. Vain as it made her, the legend of her beauty was true, despite her appearance after the sickness she had suffered these past few weeks from shock and distress. She would have no say in her humiliation, but there were still some things she could control.

This new king would get the British beauty he wanted so desperately to see, but he would not get the queen he wished to come with it.

She would not give him that submission.

George returned back to his papers, grabbing a few before leaving the offices altogether without a further word. When he had fully exited, Ona—Adrienne’s maidservant—came into the room with a gown of dark crimson red and rich gold and enough to prepare the blonde for presentation at court.

The guards escorted her to the familiar doors. She retraced a familiar path but felt no familiar feelings. This whole moment was familiar.

Last time she had been dressed so—her hair curled and arranged carefully down her back, a veil pinned to the headband she wore, soft silky organza cascading down her curls—a familiar set of faces had awaited her. It was where she got the band of gold on her finger that held a ruby so red at the center of it it was unmistakable who she was, or rather, who she had been. She had been dressed in a deep crimson red with the finest of gold ornament spanning the parts of the dress not made of red and gold brocade, much like the one she wore now with golden ribbon decorating her veil and the chemise that peeked out from the top of the neckline, at her shoulders, elbows between the ties of the sleeves.

She was gorgeous. Her lips were soft and plump and pink, and her cheeks were brushed with a rouge that would make her flush glow in the light of the hall’s windows. She looked beautiful. Irresistible even. But she would affront him, and refuse him his queen.

It was all too much. The clinking of chainmail as they walked through familiar halls, the valet that leaned in and whispered to address him as “your grace,” the familiar doors opening before her to reveal faces she was too familiar with. It was all too much. It overwhelmed her. Her head did not spin, and her stomach did not toss, but she could feel tears being brought to her eye.

He donned Andre’s crown like a mockery. The faces she knew—and the few she didn’t—whispered to themselves with every step she took. She had not even heard the steward announce her by title. Her only focus was on the man sitting perched on a throne that was not his. He seemed to feel the same, never breaking eye contact with her as she made her way down the center aisle of the room to the foot of the dias the throne sat upon. She would test him. In court, one never ascended the dias until the King had invited them to. It needn’t be verbal. A simple beckoning with his hand would suffice.

She saw him falter. She saw the confusion in his proud, steely eyes, panic setting in behind them. How well did he trust those faces in the crowd? Did he trust them at all? Or did he fear he had finally overstepped with this mockery and humiliation? Adrienne didn’t trust them either.

She stared back at him, her face calm and submissive but her eyes challenging him from where she stood. He finally motioned for her to join him, though she doubted he realized what he had done. Her feet walked forward despite their unwillingness to kneel at his feet and kiss the ring upon his finger she had sworn allegiance to when a real king had worn it. She lifted the hem of her dress ever so slightly so as not to trip on it while going up the few steps of the dias, sinking to her knees to a swift motion before him, eyes not breaking his intense stare even as she lowered herself to the cushion before his feet.

She would challenge him.

He would not get the queen he had wanted. That submission she would rob from him.

The man, dressed in a creamy, white silk corded jacket with gold and cream brocaded undersleeves, offered her his hand, offering her the ring to kiss like it was her honor to do so. Knowing she had no other choice—knowing this was why she had been brought here—she kissed it. Adrienne moved slowly, giving this King the drama he wished for, pulling her eyes from him, fluttering them closed as her lips made sweet contact with the ring. A tear escaped her eye when they closed, sliding gently down her cheek. She hesitated there, pausing her lips on the ring until the tear had fallen to the fabric of her skirts arranged at his feet like a tribute for just a moment, enjoying his squirming.

She fluttered her eyes open when she moved back from his hand, looking up at him through her lashes, kneeling still before him at his feet, her lips—pink and soft and now slightly plumper—parted carefully. He wished for beauty. She would give him that. The gold band on her left hand gave him his Queen. She would affront him, and he could not complain.

“They had not lied of your beauty,” he said, speaking finally, his voice softer than expected but just as sturdy, “It is a shame what has happened that you might find yourself so alone. Many a man would be untrue before God and have shame were you unchaperoned.”

“Then perhaps I should be grateful to the Baron, Your Grace,” she spoke quietly, soft and sweet and smooth as possible, “For his protection these past few weeks.”

He had demanded beauty.

She could give him that.

“Indeed,” the blonde man replied, “It seems he may be the only one to do so.”

The coward.

How reassuring.

“Your father said “a servant for a servant,” my dear. You should be happy I am so merciful as not to strip you down to such,” he replied carefully, “Your beauty is wasted upon a servant.” She knew that much. She knew that her veil of white organza, framed by golden ribbon, and the soft glow of her skin, the thought of her lips upon the ring were enticing to many in this room, whether they voiced their thoughts and desires or not. “You will enter into my household a Lady,” he affirmed. Could he afford anything less? How well did he rely on this crowd of faces too familiar to her? “You will attend to the Lady Walker as her Lady in Waiting. We shall see if such beauty remains unparalleled in blue.”

Snarky bastard.

It was a blessing in the least. Being a Lady of the court—and she would have to be if she were to serve in such a position—there was a certain level of protection that accompanied her.

What had been her other option? Had he intended to have her brought back to rooms she had not come from? Had he meant to lay her on her back and strip her of dignity? Men could be depraved, especially in the field. Men of combat took wives, but they also took mistresses. It was snarky of him, and Adrienne was certain she would hate it, but it was the best of her options. She would have more agency there than anywhere else. Adrienne did not even know this Lady Walker. She had not been aware there was one.

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amberlynnmurdock · 2 years

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Captured

Pairing: Ben Tallmadge x Reader

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, violence

Summary: Ben thinks keeping your relationship a secret will protect you from danger until a red coat appears on camp.

A/N: Gamble slightly might be a little out of character compared to the show. I was using how Captain Randall is portrayed in Outlander as guidance. I like to think if Starz had produced Turn, we might've seen more violence and cursing in the show, so I applied that to this fic, if that makes sense? Hopefully you all forgive me <3This was going to be my initial submission for the Valen-TURN's event but I didn't finish in time!

WARNINGS: Kicking, slapping, violence, inappropriate language, cursing.

Archive of Our Own Link

Six Months Earlier

It was one of those sunny afternoons where the sun always caught your eye no matter what angle you stood from.

You moved your eyes to the back of the horse you rode on to avoid the sun from hurting them, and doing so caused concern for the man who rode on the horse beside you.

“Benny’s going to be happy to see ya,” Caleb Brewster gave you a knowing smile. “It’s been a while since he’s wanted ya to come to the camp. Safer. Can keep an eye on ya.”

You scoffed in spite of yourself. He wanted to keep an eye on you, but from a distance. You looked up to meet Caleb’s playful eyes, which were just barely hidden under the rim of his hat. The horses trotted along. You heard the sound of leaves crunching under their hooves. A cold breeze passed and you shivered.

“I’m a little nervous,” you say honestly, “it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I’m not sure he still—“

“Quit it,” Caleb interrupts, “you’ll be staying in the quarters in the main camp, but just on the border of where the followers stay. That was the best Ben could do, so as to not be suspicious. Near Anna, too, ya know. Washington's aware of your arrival and approved your location to be so close.”

“Washington,” you repeat to yourself. “It hardly feels like a reunion if Ben and I can’t even stay in the same place together.”

“It’s more than that, __, and you know it. Unfortunately, some of the men in the camp cannot be trusted, and we don’t even know who is who. Ben can’t risk those people finding out about you and him,” Caleb states matter of factly, but you know he quotes Ben’s words because he has said the same to you. “It’s not like how it used to be.” And Caleb was right. The stakes were higher than ever for the cause.

You’ll never forget the first time you saw. He was handsome as ever, for sure, but the sight of him in uniform made the war all too real. And you worried about his life being in danger.

“Then why not just put me far in the camp hidden in a tent where I’m out of sight?” The question comes out more in anger than it does reasonably.

“Don’t be like that, __. Ben needs to have you in his sights, close enough, but far enough to not give anything away.”

Your face softened. Perhaps you were being too harsh. After all, there was a war going on, and Ben was one of the most important men on the rebels' side. Which meant, he had big enemies. Maybe you were too worried about what could happen to you both when you should be focusing on the situation at hand: you were finally going to see Ben.

~~~~

Present

It was moments like this you wished you could transport yourself into a memory and stay there forever.

You never realized how peaceful the sound of a river current could be until now, too, with your hands tied behind your back tightly with rope, mouth covered by cloth. Lieutenant Gamble was tending to the horse he stole from the camp, but you knew this break from the interrogation would be short-lived. You leaned your head back on the tree you sat against, trying not to squirm against the rough and dry rope. Any slight movement stung your wrists. Your skin began to burn and cut against the rope.

You couldn’t remember quite exactly what Ben said when a red coat soldier appeared on the camp out of nowhere, but you knew now that whatever Gamble told Ben, was a lie.

The questions, the abuse, the threats… you felt as if you were half dreaming. You wanted to give out. You wanted to just let Gamble kill you right then and there because there was no way you were going to give him what he wanted.

One part of this experience felt like a nightmare, and the other felt like bliss. At least, your mind was in another place. Another reality. No, your physical body was shaking against the tree Gamble propped you on, but your mind and thoughts were elsewhere. Images flashed in your mind as you let the sound of the river current drown out Gamble’s movements. Your eyes began to flutter.

Fresh dew-covered grass. A soft, golden sunrise. Horses. A warm breeze. And a tall man, draped in blue and silver, walking towards you, a hand reaching out. Golden brown hair reflects the sunlight and deep blue eyes meet yours. The same blue eyes that never failed to make you feel safe, that say I’ve got you without uttering a sound. For a moment, it’s bliss, because you see Ben before you and a warm rush spreads throughout your chest.

You do think you are dreaming now.

Ben’s image is gone immediately—taken from you like a toy snatched from a child’s grasp. Gamble’s heavy and dirty hand meets the side of your face with such force you fall to your side again, the nightmare taking over. Only the nightmare is actually your reality.

You keep your eyes closed, imagining Ben’s blue coat, his blue eyes, and his golden brown hair falling so perfectly around his face when it’s not tied back. You hear his words in your mind:

I will protect you. I will protect you.

You had no idea if Ben knew you were taken, though this late in the night, it was likely.

“I’m not going to ask nicely again,” Gamble snarls and grabs your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his dark eyes.

“Who are the spies that Tallmadge has set up in York City, and Long Island?” He points to a stack of books behind him, near where the fire was. You vaguely recognized them from Mr. Sackett’s tent. Your heart dropped to your stomach at the sight of them.

You looked up weakly, flinching at how close his face was to yours. You could smell the rum from his breath. You shook your head in fear, fear for your life, fear you’ll never be able to make a joke with Caleb again, or laugh with Anna, or hold Thomas, or see the one true love of your life, Ben, ever again. And if that was your fate, as you felt was 80% certain right now, you wouldn’t die selling out your friends, and your country.

“I don’t know. I swear,” you pleaded weakly, shivering at the dropping temperature. You were only in your shift when Gamble kidnapped you. “I don’t talk to Tallmadge like that,” you lied. “I just help around the camp! I do laundry and barter! I swear!” You were desperately wishing he would somehow let you go, but at this point, there was no going back. You were captured.

Gamble scoffed. He spits on the ground. His ginger hair looked red in the glow of the fire. His green eyes reminded you of a snake. He had stubble on his face. You tried to look away but his dirty hands forced you to face him again. Your heart was beating fast in your chest and you felt yourself begin to panic. Any last bit of hope you had to be saved was now fully diminished, the darker it got.

“You’re telling me Tallmadge gets you into his bed every night, fucks you like the whore you are, but he keeps his work to himself? Ay miss, either you’re dumber than I thought or Tallmadge is only using you to keep his bed warm at night and his pipe hard,” Gamble hissed in a low voice, “I didn’t capture the one weakness I know Tallmadge has just for her to not speak.”

A million possibilities are floating through your mind. How could he know about you and Ben? Did he overhear something? Did someone say something? Was it that obvious? Gamble was held hostage—you didn’t even see him until he barged into your tent and took you.

“So you planned this ambush on me just so you could get some sort of information out of me,” you say out of breath, shaking your head. “Why not capture Tallmadge himself? What am I to you?”

Gamble kneels back. The fire crackles. He squints and licks his lips. You’re anticipating his next moves, but it’s useless. You are a prisoner. His. You have no way of getting out and there’s no way Ben can save you. It’s over, as far as you’re concerned.

“I’m going after his heart to get to him. To surrender,” Gamble simply says. “But how it’s been almost a day already and he’s not here, you must mean nothing to him. That’s the only thing I’m wrong about.”

You shut your eyes tight—it’s not true what he says. It’s not. You know he’s trying to make you have a reason to give in. You shake your head and meet his eyes, an act of defiance—foolish perhaps, but you dind’t care.

“You’re wrong if you think that by the end of this, you’ll be the one alive,” you said in a low voice.

Gamble lunged towards you and roughly placed his hands around your jaw. His movements were sloppy and aggressive, likely from the rum he’s been drinking. You shrieked and sank lower toward the ground as if that would protect you in some way.

For a moment, he holds you there, staring into your eyes. He can see the fear. Feel it against his fingertips. He looks away, and when he looks back, it’s not rage you see in him, but a different hunger.

He walks slowly to the horse and where Mr. Sackett’s stolen documents are in a briefcase. You watch as Gamble flips through the pages for a few minutes until he stops at one page in particular.

And slowly, the realization hits.

Of course, he found the letter you were writing with Mr. Sackett to give to Ben. You had grown a surprisingly close kinship with Mr. Sackett, and he respected your ideas in writing. It was a silly project you and he were working on—writing a love letter to Ben completely in his own code. It was a fun idea the two of you came up with one day; something to lighten the mood for Ben. Now, the whole thing was ruined, and you choked on your tears when you remembered Mr. Sackett was no longer here to help you finish it. Twisting the knife.

You sobbed, turning away from Gamble’s harsh glare.

“You can’t lie to me, miss,” Gamble growled, holding the letter up in one hand. “I will get the truth out of you.”

~~~~

The Night Before the Kidnapping

You lay on your cot with your hands tucked on the side of your face, staring at the candle on the bedside table. You could hear soldiers outside, drunk and dancing, surely up way past bedtime, but you figured there were no rules here after dark, as long as the men showed up early for their orders.

The soft glow of the candle is the only light in your tent. You can’t sleep. You’re mesmerized by the flick of the flame, hoping that if you stare at it long enough, you’ll fall asleep. You’ve had no such luck yet.

You shiver and pull the wool blanket over your shoulders tighter. The winters in New Jersey were brutal. You found yourself longing for it to be summer—sweltering hot with cool summer nights. You hoped by summer that by some chance the war would be over and the rebels claim their victory, and you and Ben wouldn’t have to keep this a secret anymore.

“Hey,” a voice calls from your tent opening. You shoot up in bed in a panic, reaching for the dagger under your pillow. When you see the familiar silhouette in only a white shirt and white pants, you lowered your fist.

“Ben!” You shout-whisper. “You scared me half to death.” You slipped the dagger back under your pillow.

“I’m sorry,” Ben says sheepishly with a soft grin. He walks over to you and sits on the edge of your bed. His hair is loose, falling just above his shoulders. He looks tired, and you wonder why he’s come to visit you so late.

“Are you alright?” You ask him.

He nods his head a little and looks at you with a thoughtful expression. The candlelight reflects off his face perfectly. Half of his face is in the light, the other half dark. The light makes him look vulnerable, somehow. You’re used to seeing him so poised, so in control. Tonight, he just looks like Ben. The one you knew before he wore blue and silver.

“I wanted to come to check on you,” Ben tells you. He looks around your tent thoughtfully. “To makes sure no soldiers wandered over here. And now that we’ve got two prisoners on site, everyone is riled up. I wish this tent had more security.”

“I don’t think anyone would dare come to my tent knowing thee Major Tallmadge’s tent is right down the path,” you smirked. Ben let out a soft laugh.

“It makes me feel better to see you in bed safe.”

“I’d rather much be in yours,” you tell him, reaching up and twirling a piece of his hair before you place the palm of your hand on his cheek. He closes his eyes and turns into your touch, kissing the palm of your hand. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and holds you for a moment.

“I know,” he says lowering your hand to his right thigh, “eventually.” The way he said the last word with caution annoyed you a bit—like he was just saying it to keep you strung along.

“Eventually,” you repeat, taking your hand away from him. He looks at you like you’ve just snatched a prized possession from him, concern immediately filling his blue eyes. To be a soldier was to be reactive, and sometimes you hated how much of an effect you had on Ben. He was so quick to your emotions—and normally you appreciated it, but other times, like tonight, you wish he would stop pretending he didn’t know the reason why you got upset when you’d bring up your…situation.

His concern about something he could easily fix was getting under your skin.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asks, furrowing his brows.

“What’s wrong is, every time you ask me that question, I give you the same answer, and you still ask me the same God-forsaken question thinking I’ll give you a different answer,” you say, exasperated. “Sometimes it just feels like you’d rather it be this way.”

Ben turns more so he’s facing you. Worry is etched all over his face, and confusion. His blue eyes grew wider and he parted his lips. He had a disoriented look on his face, completely surprised by where the conversation was going.

“I—you think I want this? To pretend that I barely know you, that I don’t love you and would lay down my life for you? I don’t want this. I keep you here to protect you. Protect you from the enemy, whether it be in this camp or out there. I told you I will always protect you no matter what that may mean,” Ben pleads, grabbing your hands and kissing your knuckles. “Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices we don’t like to make sure everything goes to plan,” Ben, trying to reason with you, tried to touch your hands but you jerked away from him to his affliction.

“And am I just another player in your plan?” You ask quietly, doubtful as you look at your hands. You feel a rage grow in your chest, perhaps one you’ve been burying deep inside for too long, and it’s moments like this you can’t help but unleash it.

“I don’t know what you say to other people, other women when you are out there in Philadelphia and… and York City. I don't know. You have no problem being out in public with the socialites of those cities, with them at your arm, at a dance, but with me, I have to be tucked away in a tent at the bottom of the map!”

“That’s not—”

“It’s true, isn’t it? You have to play the part with them but what part do you play with me? Am I another piece in your chess game? You tell lies to everybody, how do I know you're not telling lies to me?”

“Because—I love you! Christ, __, what have I done to make you think otherwise? Do you think I want this for you, for us? You believe I want to have you in this tent away from me not in my arms every night? You think I don’t wish to have you on my arm when I have to go to those parties?” Ben could feel his heart pounding against his chest, anxious he upset you in some way, and hurt by your reaction to all this.

“Parties that I am obliged to attend, might I add, to ensure the protection of His Excellency. Do you think it’s easy for me to make these decisions, or that I even want to?” Ben stood up from your bed now, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

You pressed your lips together and closed your eyes, knowing you’d unleashed a tidal wave of emotion from the both of you, and there was no stopping it. It was your fault. Your eyes felt heavy with tears—Ben needed to leave you be.

Ben cursed to himself, rubbing his hand on his jaw like he always did when he was frustrated and things weren’t going his way—when things were out of his control. Ben was doing all he could, and still, all he could wasn’t enough.

Ben turns around to see you wiping your tears away. He sighs deeply. Arguing with you wasn’t worth it. He whispers your name.

“You have to understand—I do this to protect you—“

“I don’t need your protection tonight,” you cut him off, meeting his glassy blue eyes. “I need sleep.”

As painful as it was to leave you like this, it was clear you didn’t want him around right now. Ben took one last look at you as you got under the covers and closed your eyes.

He left—but not before tying an extra knot on your tent.

~~~~

The next afternoon

If there is one thing anyone should know about Ben, it’s that he is always in control of everything he promises. He is Washington’s eyes and ears. He ensures the safety of messages being passed between the Culper Ring. Ben takes care of everything that is assigned to him, and the satisfaction of a plan going accordingly is what keeps him sane.

But this. This was not supposed to happen.

At first, Ben was in disbelief. And then the cold wave of reality hit him so hard in the face, he couldn’t help but feel nauseated at the sight of your empty bed.

After he found Mr. Sackett with his throat cut open, Ben thought it best to make sure you were secure in your tent and to stay there until the perimeters of the camp were searched. It would be hard to break the news to you, but the sooner you knew, the better.

As he rushed down the path toward your tent, Ben had an odd feeling grow in his chest. But for what? He knew there was no way you had even left your tent yet because your shift at the cart didn’t start for another hour, and any doubt that ever crossed his mind was quickly put to rest because Ben was good at planning, and there was no need to worry. He would never let anything happen to you and his plans would never cause you to be in such a situation.

But still—there was always that tiny feeling of doubt.

He specifically put you in this tent to be safe from the ongoings in the camp. He specifically had you at the border of where the followers stayed to blend in. This was absolutely not part of his plan, and it disproved how this was all supposed to happen. Your bed was as empty as the most reasonable explanation Ben could come up with.

Gamble had gone to be interrogated by Mr. Sackett, and unfortunately, it was too late to stop him and arrest Gamble. It was too late to catch Gamble…

It was too late. Ben was too late.

“No…no….,” Ben softly whispered, brows furrowed, mouth parted open as he touches your empty, cold bed. Sweat forms on his forehead. “No… it’s not possible.” His heartbeat was in his ears and Ben could feel his hands cramping with anxiety. Sweat began to trickle down his chest as he rubbed his jaw with his hand. Suddenly, everything felt too hot and too cold all at once.

He felt as if he was walking in slow motion around your tent. Your books were on the ground–a sure sign of struggle. Your shoes were left here. Your dress was still hung up to be worn. Looking under your bed, the gun he gave you to protect yourself was still in its compartment. Your dagger was half under your pillow like you tried to reach for it but were too late.

No, this can’t be. No.

“Ben,” the sound of Caleb’s voice pulled Ben from his thoughts. “Ben—oh shite, ‘e got her.” Caleb walked over to his friend, knowing he was drowning in his thoughts. He patted Ben’s cheek in a brotherly way.

“C’mon, Tallboy, no time to self-loathe!” Caleb exclaimed. “We’ve got to find her! One follower saw ‘im exit south with her—he stole a horse!”

Caleb was right—while Ben was coming up with every reason under the sun why he shouldn’t have let this happen, how wrong he was for bringing you to this camp for his own selfish reasons, and how upset he had made you the night before—there was no time to waste. He needed to find you.

He needed to find you.

~~~~

Gamble wasn’t letting up on swigging rum, and he wasn’t letting up on you yet. In his drunken state, he tied the rope on your hands even tighter, which ripped your skin open and caused your skin to crack and bleed. Your shoulders began to ache from being tied behind you for so long. And his tactics were getting more violent the more he drank.

“Seems like you like to be kicked,” Gamble spat on the ground next to you. His words slurred. You were out of breath from the blow he just gave to your stomach. You coughed uncontrollably, dirt rubbing into your cheek.

“Please—stop,” You managed to say between coughs. Gamble laughed and mimicked your voice. He bent over his knees, holding the bottle from its neck.

“If ya don’t talk, the next rope I tie will be ‘round your neck,” Gamble growled in a low voice. “And if you still don’t speak then, perhaps the methods Tallmadge uses on you will get you to speak. Or scream, at least.”

You were too dazed to understand his meaning. Your head pounded, and your stomach felt tight from bracing yourself from his hits. Suddenly, you were being pulled up by his dirty hands. He shoves you so hard against the tree you feel sharp pieces of wood dig into your back. He grabs your jaw with his right hand.

“Look at me!” Gamble shouted in your face.

There was no point in his interrogation— you were convinced that in his drunken state, he was only doing this to scare you, and perhaps he was enjoying his power. You made it clear by taking the abuse and intimidation you were not going to give him any answers he wanted. What was his purpose now? When would this madness stop? When was he going to take you to the enemy camp?

You suddenly felt like your situation was catching up to you—the dehydration, the pain, the unsettling realization you may never see any of your friends ever again—a sudden shock rippled through your body—you were shaking from the cold, and then you became rigid in his grasp. Your heart started pounding in your chest, and suddenly you felt numb from the pain. A ringing sound filled your head. You watched as Gamble fell to the ground.

Something had happened but you watched in slow motion as you fell to your side, unable to move.

Gamble clumsily stood up, dropping the bottle of rum.

A man with a beard and dark hat was holding a gun—you couldn’t make out his face from your angle, and you couldn’t move your head. And then suddenly, another man appeared—tall, in a blue and silver coat. You could only see both their silhouettes. He attacked—no, he lunged for Gamble, throwing him to the ground. The man began to furiously punch Gamble in the face, so much you saw his own knuckles start to bleed. The man in the hat pulled the man off of Gamble.

“Enough! She needs you!” He shouts.

Caleb shoots Gamble directly in the head.

Ben falls to his knees. His bloody hands are trembling with rage. He’s breathing heavily as he rushes to your side.

You are still numb, laying on your side, shaking. You feel a warm hand at the small of your back as you are gently moved to lay on your back. You immediately lock eyes with Ben. He’s hovering over you. A tear from his eyes falls on your cheek.

“Benjamin,” your voice quivers, “Ben—” your whispers come out in huffs. You felt a heavy blanket being wrapped around you as Ben assisted you in sitting up.

“Shh,” Ben cooed, wrapping the blanket snugly around your torso. He made attempts to stretch out your legs that had been stuck like you were in a fetal position.

“She’s in shock and she’s freezin’ out here,” Caleb spoke to Ben. Ben kept his concerned eyes on you, a spurn look on his face. He nodded in response.

“Keep looking at me,” Ben softly spoke to you, following your gaze. You met his eyes and slowly began to nod with him. “You’re with me. I have you.”

Your eyes grew heavy all of the sudden, and your breathing slowed, as your world turned black.

~~~~

The first thing you felt when you woke up was a cramping pain in your abdomen. With your eyes still closed, you squirmed in discomfort. You smelt something fresh in the air—something minty and eucalyptus. You shrieked in the cot you lay in as you put a protective hand over your stomach. That’s when you felt a cold washcloth on your head, and your eyes flew open.

At first, you thought you were in the infirmary, but by the size of the tent you were in, and the lack of other cots in the tent, you were wrong. It surely wasn’t your own tent—you didn’t have that desk across from you and your cot was supposed to be tucked in the left corner of the tent. This cot was on the right side, and the cot itself was much bigger than yours.

You looked down at your stomach. You were in a clean white shift, but through the fabric, you could see bandages on your stomach, and bandages wrapped around both your wrists. You groaned at the sudden movement. You wanted to take the washcloth off your head, but when you moved your arms, you hissed in pain at how sore they were.

“You’re awake,” a light, airy voice gasped. Startled, you turned your head to see Anna rushing to your side with a hot kettle. She sat the kettle down on the table next to the cot you were on. Anna smiled, but her eyes looked sad. She took the washcloth off your forehead and placed the back of her hand on your cheek.

“Your fever’s going down, I think,” she simply stated. “How do you feel?”

“Achy…all over,” you answered slowly. “Tired. Where am I? This isn’t my cot.”

Anna sighed, looking down at you. “It’s Ben’s.”

“Ben?” you looked around making sense of your surroundings.

Suddenly, Anna perked, “Speaking of, he said to alert him as soon as you woke. Let me get him.”

Before you could answer, Anna was already on her way out. You started to get nervous, looking around Ben’s tent. It was dark outside. How long have you been out? Why did Ben put you here? The more questions you came up with, the more your heart beat faster.

Ben opened the flaps of his tent, ducking inside before standing up more straight. He was wearing his uniform—all clad in blue and silver. His hair was tied back with a few pieces loose in the front. He looked anxious as he rushed to your side. He knelt at the side of the cot and took your bandaged right hand in his.

Your eyes began to swell with tears when he held your hand to his head, putting his head down, and said a prayer under his breath. His hands were cut up and bruised, and flashes of Ben punching him in the face came to your mind. When Ben was done, he kissed your hand and opened his eyes.

For a moment, there is silence. Ben keeps hold of your hand in between both of his and caresses your knuckles, running his thumb over them. His deep blue eyes looked tense at you. He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Ben finally spoke, his voice sounding like it strained to speak. “I am so, so sorry.” He laid your hand back down to rest. When he did so, you drew your breath in quickly from pain. Ben jumped at the reaction feeling like his heart was being ripped from his chest. You should have never been hurt. It should have been him, was all he could think.

“It’s not your fault,” you argued, “there’s no discussion about that.” You whispered. You barely had time to process what had happened, including how your capture even happened.

“Mr. Sackett…” you trailed off as tears rolled down your cheeks. Ben wiped them away with a his thumbs. He nodded in understanding.

“I know, darling,” Ben murmured, “it's terrible. It’s my fault. I should have been the one to—“ looking at your bandaged stomach and hands, Ben cut himself off. This was no time to talk about the things that happened out of his control. What truly mattered was that you were here, in his bed, safe and sound. He nearly lost you and he was never going to let that happen again.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked instead.

“I…” you didn’t know how you felt. All you knew was that you were thankful to be alive and with Ben again. “I thought he was going to kill me, Ben.”

Ben clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment before looking at you again.

“I thought I’d never see you again," you confessed. “And to leave like that, what happened the night before, Ben, I’m sorry—“

“Shh,” Ben hushed, running his fingers down the length of your jaw, over your collarbone, and down your arm. He laced his fingers with yours. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about.”

He whispered your name, “I felt hollow when I saw you were missing. I felt… I don’t ever want to feel that emotion again when I saw you weren’t in your tent. Christ, I was—I was sick about it. Thinking of what he—never mind. I wasn’t going to stop until I found you.”

You didn’t want to talk about the pain and the hurt anymore. It was obvious this situation hurt both of you, physically and mentally. What was the use of dwelling? What mattered was you were safe back in camp with Ben. He was right here, looking longingly at you, holding your hand.

“Ben, why am I not at the infirmary? Or my own tent?” You asked him, curious.

“There’s no point in being afraid of risk,” Ben simply stated, “I thought I was protecting you by keeping us a secret, by keeping you tucked away—and I was wrong. When you were captured, it made me realize that our time is precious, and I can’t control the unpredictable. I failed you. I did,” Ben turned away, taking another deep breath.

You knew he was using all his strength to not break down right there. “I can’t control the unpredictable, but I can do better, and go onward. I want you to stay with me here. It wasn’t right I kept you separate. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, to make you think I don’t care about us. I love you, my darling. And I’m done keeping it a secret.”

Ben moved closer to you, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Before I was afraid of people finding out about us, and then when you were captured, I had a new fear that they’d never even know about us. And that scared me more,” Ben sighed. “I couldn’t lose you before we could even start our life together. There’s no reason for us to put it off. I want to start our life together here, now. In this camp. In this war.”

Ben looked at you earnestly with his eyebrows raised. You smiled in spite of yourself. You nodded, feeling a weight lift from your chest.

“Yes, let’s start it now.”

Ben smiled in return, a single tear falling down his cheek. He leaned over you and slowly descend his lips to yours. His soft lips felt like a cloud. His nose brushed on your cheek and he leaned his forehead on yours as he pulled back.

He changed out of his uniform and soon joined you in his cot—no, the cot you now shared—and tucked his head in the crook of your neck, carefully placing his arm across your chest to avoid any of your wounds. Finally, you were in his arms.

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