If pressed, Benedict might admit that he thought that, if he was ever returned to his home, no time at all might have passed. Admitting to that thought felt like a betrayal of what he and Kate had built with each other, but what other explanation could he give? If he was being rational, the two whole years he spent living on the Surface made far more sense when viewed through lens of some sort of injury-induced hallucination, the fevered ramblings of a sick and dying brain desperate to cobble together a few more moments of clarity before succumbing to Silkweaver venom. He would have said that, if this theory were true, if he woke up at all he would expect to simply wake up in a sickbed, his body sore, the world the same as he left it.
In actual fact, the two years he spent living down on the Surface passed above it as well.
When Benedict woke up in his own bed, taller and broader and sporting a full beard he had never worn in his life before, he had given the maid coming into his room such a fright she actually fainted. What followed was a cacophony of yelling, both from members of his family and from himself, as everyone tried to wrest answers out of everyone else, all to no avail. Eventually, the yelling had ceased and he had been washed, had his hair trimmed — though he had categorically refused to let anyone force him to shave; a beard such as his might not be fashionable in the high houses of Spire Albion, but goddammit, it's one of the only things he has that proves (to him, at least) that what happened to him was real — and new clothes were procured for him, and then he was whisked off to meet with the Spirearch.
Countless tests and interrogations later, and still, nobody is any the wiser as to where he had gone, why he had been chosen, or even how he had been taken.
Gwen had cried on his chest when she finally came by to see him a few days later, too busy with her duties to the Spirearch to be living at home when he had arrived. He had held her close, almost crushingly close, and tried to keep his own tears at bay. For two whole years he had wished to know how she was doing, had wished to see her, had wished to speak to her again, and now that she was here beside him, all he could do was think about how much he wished he was back in that little primitive habble, back in his own home, back with his wife.
Slowly, over the following weeks, Benedict adjusted back to the way life used to be before, returning to the Guard for lack of anything better to do, his once-easy demeanor markedly changed. While he was always happy enough to keep his own company unless in the company of his family or closest friends, now it would be more accurate to describe Benedict as withdrawn, lost in his own head when he wasn't doggedly putting himself through the rigorous training exercises given to him to get him back to fighting shape. With single-minded focus, he clawed his way back up the ranks, regaining his skill with gauntlet and saber alike, a harsher edge to his fighting style that he would have said sat better on the shoulders of Bucky Barnes than himself. No matter. Despite his own conviction to remember his life below, those memories seem to drift farther and farther away from him with every day, and there are nights he lies awake in his bed and misses the warm shape of his wife beside him and wonders if she had been a dream after all.
While her memory was still fresh in his mind, he had drawn a portrait of Kate, lamenting not having practiced — though how could he, really, have practiced a skill such as this one, when paper and pencil was so hard to come by? — for so many years, unhappy with the final product but knowing he would be unable to improve upon it. The little drawing remains tucked in his jacket, beneath the Ethersilk lining, where it will be safe and he can withdraw it to glance at it whenever he likes. He has nothing else to remember her by, after all. The ring he was gifted did not come with a companion for him to wear, so now that he has been torn from her side, the only memory he has of Kate even existing is his beard and the scar on his arm from that time he dropped a pot of boiling water on the kitchen floor and scalded himself.
His gauntlet is a heavy weight on his left hand, his sword an uncomfortable pressure on his hip, and even his uniform seems to sit strangely on him now, even though it has been made precisely to his measurements. Dressing every day in his fine woolen coat and shined leather boots, clothes he had dreamed wistfully of while trapped down below, he finds himself perversely missing soft cotton and rough denim. Even the lack of wood surrounding him is hard to adjust to again, and he had spent his entire tenure on the Surface mildly astonished to see trees growing.
Hardest to adjust to is how alone he feels, despite the fact that he is once more surrounded by every living member of his extended family, the majority of which live in Lancaster House alongside him, the more removed members living nearby in less-grand houses of their own. Never did Benedict think he would truly miss their one little room in the inn, or the small little cottage across the way that they had eventually moved into. He had thought them so lonely, before, and now he feels lonelier than ever.
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for kate; new beginnings
Date: 2020-03-25 02:27 am (UTC)In actual fact, the two years he spent living down on the Surface passed above it as well.
When Benedict woke up in his own bed, taller and broader and sporting a full beard he had never worn in his life before, he had given the maid coming into his room such a fright she actually fainted. What followed was a cacophony of yelling, both from members of his family and from himself, as everyone tried to wrest answers out of everyone else, all to no avail. Eventually, the yelling had ceased and he had been washed, had his hair trimmed — though he had categorically refused to let anyone force him to shave; a beard such as his might not be fashionable in the high houses of Spire Albion, but goddammit, it's one of the only things he has that proves (to him, at least) that what happened to him was real — and new clothes were procured for him, and then he was whisked off to meet with the Spirearch.
Countless tests and interrogations later, and still, nobody is any the wiser as to where he had gone, why he had been chosen, or even how he had been taken.
Gwen had cried on his chest when she finally came by to see him a few days later, too busy with her duties to the Spirearch to be living at home when he had arrived. He had held her close, almost crushingly close, and tried to keep his own tears at bay. For two whole years he had wished to know how she was doing, had wished to see her, had wished to speak to her again, and now that she was here beside him, all he could do was think about how much he wished he was back in that little primitive habble, back in his own home, back with his wife.
Slowly, over the following weeks, Benedict adjusted back to the way life used to be before, returning to the Guard for lack of anything better to do, his once-easy demeanor markedly changed. While he was always happy enough to keep his own company unless in the company of his family or closest friends, now it would be more accurate to describe Benedict as withdrawn, lost in his own head when he wasn't doggedly putting himself through the rigorous training exercises given to him to get him back to fighting shape. With single-minded focus, he clawed his way back up the ranks, regaining his skill with gauntlet and saber alike, a harsher edge to his fighting style that he would have said sat better on the shoulders of Bucky Barnes than himself. No matter. Despite his own conviction to remember his life below, those memories seem to drift farther and farther away from him with every day, and there are nights he lies awake in his bed and misses the warm shape of his wife beside him and wonders if she had been a dream after all.
While her memory was still fresh in his mind, he had drawn a portrait of Kate, lamenting not having practiced — though how could he, really, have practiced a skill such as this one, when paper and pencil was so hard to come by? — for so many years, unhappy with the final product but knowing he would be unable to improve upon it. The little drawing remains tucked in his jacket, beneath the Ethersilk lining, where it will be safe and he can withdraw it to glance at it whenever he likes. He has nothing else to remember her by, after all. The ring he was gifted did not come with a companion for him to wear, so now that he has been torn from her side, the only memory he has of Kate even existing is his beard and the scar on his arm from that time he dropped a pot of boiling water on the kitchen floor and scalded himself.
His gauntlet is a heavy weight on his left hand, his sword an uncomfortable pressure on his hip, and even his uniform seems to sit strangely on him now, even though it has been made precisely to his measurements. Dressing every day in his fine woolen coat and shined leather boots, clothes he had dreamed wistfully of while trapped down below, he finds himself perversely missing soft cotton and rough denim. Even the lack of wood surrounding him is hard to adjust to again, and he had spent his entire tenure on the Surface mildly astonished to see trees growing.
Hardest to adjust to is how alone he feels, despite the fact that he is once more surrounded by every living member of his extended family, the majority of which live in Lancaster House alongside him, the more removed members living nearby in less-grand houses of their own. Never did Benedict think he would truly miss their one little room in the inn, or the small little cottage across the way that they had eventually moved into. He had thought them so lonely, before, and now he feels lonelier than ever.