Post by Benedict Bridgerton on Oct 28, 2022 23:48:34 GMT
Tag: @eloisebridgerton & i' m n o t b o u n d b y
THE RULES OF SOCIETY
Benedict was returning home late from a party. Shockingly it was not one of Henry's parties, but rather, another friend's. One where he still had to maintain the image of a nobleman; of a Bridgerton. It made him miss the more . . . informal ones, where he need not concern himself with maintaining appearances but rather, could just relax. Let loose. Paint. Converse. And leave all the societal pressures at the door. Having been in attendance of such events made him far too aware of how . . . stifling these sort could be. At least they were not as bad as the extravagant balls and the like. Besides, even Benedict had to admit to himself, it was nice to catch up with friends.
The hour was late as he was walking home; fortunately the host's home was not far from Benedict's family estate. However, the distance became unexpectedly longer when the sound of quick footsteps could be heard behind him. And, there was more than one pair. Benedict attempted to ignore it but it was not long until one of those figures, hastened their pace so that they now stood directly in front of the second son, blocking him. Benedict looked at him and glanced around him, realizing there were a few men who now surrounded him. About five. But once he fully turned his body, his curiosity was somewhat satisfied. He could not help but cast a smug look, ignoring the heavy pounding in his heart. Cavender. Benedict's words matched his outward expression of smugness, making a remark about whether he thought he now increased the odds, though it would do no good. A reference to their last conversation.
Of course Benedict was no fool and hoped to avoid this entire circumstance keeping it void of violence . . . but he would not give Cavender the satisfaction of feeling powerful. He remarked something along the lines of how Benedict had taken something from him, now standing directly in front of Benedict, their bodies far too close to each other. A clear invasion of personal space and a position of tension and perhaps animosity. Benedict of course replied in kind . . . that she was never his. The last time he had seen the man, he was a vile man attempting to assault a maid. But now . . . things had changed. Now, Benedict saw him as a villainous monster who had dared lay a hand on Sophie. And while the Bridgerton son knew he had no claim to her, his feelings and love for her were far too strong to think otherwise. It made this intense anger surge through him, a rage that he had not known at the time. And one now that made him want to truly make Cavender pay for his crimes. Despite, Cavender having been the one at the time to threaten Bridgerton.
Perhaps it was Bridgerton's smugness, his apparent lack of fear, the anger in his eyes, the confident stance, the elevated moral high ground, or the continued few words . . . he would never know. But it had been something, enough for the other male to swiftly pull out a dagger, and lodge it into Benedict's stomach. The unexpected action caused Benedict to let out a small choked sound at the sharp, painful impact of the blade, locking eyes with the assailant. Cavender's rage had clearly clouded his thought, for once the seemingly long seconds passed between them, the man's expression slowly changed from the boiling anger . . . to widened eyes and fearful realization. He withdrew the blade, causing Benedict to stagger back a few steps, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of falling helplessly to the ground. Everything seemed to stand still in this moment, and the voices in the background sounded far more distant than they actually were. What have you done?! We must get help! We will be hung for this! In the end of the quick deliberation, the men had all fled, leaving Benedict.
He stretched out his arm, using whatever outer wall he could reach to keep him on his feet, his upper body hunched over as he could now see the colour of his vest darkening from the blood seeping through. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he took a slow breath, and focused only on moving one foot in front of the other. He was almost home. Surely, he could get home. It felt as if he was moving underwater but soon enough, he had arrived at the safety of his house. It was late, so it came as no surprise that everyone was asleep. Even their butler. Benedict pushed the doors open, letting them close behind him and staggering inside. He looked around, needing a place to sit and properly assess the wound. Surely, it would not kill him. But the pain and blood loss was making him feel light headed.
◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈
The hour was late as he was walking home; fortunately the host's home was not far from Benedict's family estate. However, the distance became unexpectedly longer when the sound of quick footsteps could be heard behind him. And, there was more than one pair. Benedict attempted to ignore it but it was not long until one of those figures, hastened their pace so that they now stood directly in front of the second son, blocking him. Benedict looked at him and glanced around him, realizing there were a few men who now surrounded him. About five. But once he fully turned his body, his curiosity was somewhat satisfied. He could not help but cast a smug look, ignoring the heavy pounding in his heart. Cavender. Benedict's words matched his outward expression of smugness, making a remark about whether he thought he now increased the odds, though it would do no good. A reference to their last conversation.
◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈
Of course Benedict was no fool and hoped to avoid this entire circumstance keeping it void of violence . . . but he would not give Cavender the satisfaction of feeling powerful. He remarked something along the lines of how Benedict had taken something from him, now standing directly in front of Benedict, their bodies far too close to each other. A clear invasion of personal space and a position of tension and perhaps animosity. Benedict of course replied in kind . . . that she was never his. The last time he had seen the man, he was a vile man attempting to assault a maid. But now . . . things had changed. Now, Benedict saw him as a villainous monster who had dared lay a hand on Sophie. And while the Bridgerton son knew he had no claim to her, his feelings and love for her were far too strong to think otherwise. It made this intense anger surge through him, a rage that he had not known at the time. And one now that made him want to truly make Cavender pay for his crimes. Despite, Cavender having been the one at the time to threaten Bridgerton.
◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈
Perhaps it was Bridgerton's smugness, his apparent lack of fear, the anger in his eyes, the confident stance, the elevated moral high ground, or the continued few words . . . he would never know. But it had been something, enough for the other male to swiftly pull out a dagger, and lodge it into Benedict's stomach. The unexpected action caused Benedict to let out a small choked sound at the sharp, painful impact of the blade, locking eyes with the assailant. Cavender's rage had clearly clouded his thought, for once the seemingly long seconds passed between them, the man's expression slowly changed from the boiling anger . . . to widened eyes and fearful realization. He withdrew the blade, causing Benedict to stagger back a few steps, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of falling helplessly to the ground. Everything seemed to stand still in this moment, and the voices in the background sounded far more distant than they actually were. What have you done?! We must get help! We will be hung for this! In the end of the quick deliberation, the men had all fled, leaving Benedict.
◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈
He stretched out his arm, using whatever outer wall he could reach to keep him on his feet, his upper body hunched over as he could now see the colour of his vest darkening from the blood seeping through. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he took a slow breath, and focused only on moving one foot in front of the other. He was almost home. Surely, he could get home. It felt as if he was moving underwater but soon enough, he had arrived at the safety of his house. It was late, so it came as no surprise that everyone was asleep. Even their butler. Benedict pushed the doors open, letting them close behind him and staggering inside. He looked around, needing a place to sit and properly assess the wound. Surely, it would not kill him. But the pain and blood loss was making him feel light headed.
◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈
He glanced at the door of the drawing room, deciding against it. Irrational thought and an odd focus on the fact that his mother would be angry if he stained the sofa with blood, and if the rug had drops of it from his trail. It would be difficult if not impossible to remove. Why, Benedict thought of such things, he was unsure. He would blame his light headed state indeed. But it was enough to leave him where he was, in the main hall, as he leaned against the wall and allowed his body to slowly slide down until he was sitting on the floor. His legs stretched out in front of him, seated in an upright position with his back against the wall. His arms were limp by his side and he knew that he should start removing his coat and taking off his vest to see how deep the wound was. Or, to at least stop the bleeding.◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈
Perhaps it was indeed the blood loss from his movements here, but he felt slightly delirious. So until he could gather the strength to stand up, get proper help, or . . . do anything productive to help his situation, all he could do was remain still, and silently fight the darkness that threatened to consume him. 
