Chapter Text
— 1338
Benson had been fourteen when his father, for lack of a more fitting word, descended into madness and bloodshed.
He insisted—and still insists—that theirs had once been a harmonious household. There had been quarrels, yes, the occasional strained discussion over dwindling finances and unpaid bills, but nothing beyond what any ordinary family might endure. Nothing sharp enough, nothing dark enough, to hint at the dreadful urge that would one day take root in his father's heart.
There hadn't been signs—he swears.
There couldn't have been.
At least, that was what Benson told himself.
Yet in the quiet hours of the night, when memory loosened its restraint, and doubt crept in like a chill through cracked windows. Was he willfully blind? Had there actually been signs—any unusual silence, a gaze that lingered too long with the intent to kill, a smile that failed to reach the eyes? Had the urge to gun their heads gathered long before it broke, while he remained ignorant simply because he did not know where or how to look?
Benson swore there had been nothing.
He swore it.
But the more he repeated it, the less certain the words became.
It happened on an ordinary evening, so painfully ordinary that the memory of it still felt unreal.
Their mother had been preparing dinner. Nothing extravagant, just a simple meal. Benson could still recall the warm scent of chicken soup drifting through the house, mingling with the faint crackle of the stove. The air had been peaceful then, wrapped in the quiet comfort of daily routine.
Their father had walked in shortly after.
At first, nothing seemed amiss. He had greeted no one, but that was not unusual enough to draw alarm. However, Benson did notice it... the faint tremor in his father's hand as he held his silver pocket watch.
The chain quivered softly—
Then came the order.
"Go to your rooms," his father had said, voice strained, as though each word scraped against something lodged deep within his throat.
They had questioned him, of course they had. It was dinner time.
And he snapped.
The sound of it had been sharp and sudden: "Go."
Shocked and unsettled by the abrupt shift, Benson had wasted no further probing. He grabbed Klein and Melissa by the wrists and ushered them into his room, closing the door behind them. Even then, even before anything had truly begun, the atmosphere felt wrong.
When their mother's voice rose, confused at first, then edged with something like alarm—Benson's hand moved on instinct. He locked the door. The small click of metal sliding into place sounded unbearably loud in the suffocating silence that followed.
Benson pulled his siblings close, wrapping his arms around them. He murmured meaningless reassurances, attempting to drown out the increasing argument outside. His heartbeat quickened, worried and afraid.
Then came the scream.
A scramble. Something fell on the ground—the sound of glass breaking. Then the deafening bang of a gunshot.
Benson froze—Klein clutched at his shirt, equally wide-eyed—Melissa began to cry—
Another gunshot rang out.
The sound shattered whatever fragile disbelief still lingered.
Benson moved.
He dragged both of his siblings into his arms, pressing them tightly against his chest. "Quiet," he whispered, voice trembling with undisguised fear. "Don't make a sound."
The window had been left slightly open to let the evening air in. And with shaking hands, Benson pushed it wider.
One by one, he guided both of them toward the window—
Before any of them could even fully understand what was happening, the three of them were already sitting inside the church, dressed in black that felt far too heavy for their thin shoulders.
Two coffins were laid before the altar; as if the violence of that night could be erased by prayers alone. It felt unreal. Like a punishment delivered without explanation.
And then, just as abruptly as their lives had shattered, the matter was concluded.
Documents were signed by thumb prints, voices murmuring empty condolences, sympathetic hands pressing briefly against their shoulders, and then—the last clod of earth struck wood with a final, suffocating thud.
— 1340
"Klein," sixteen-year-old Benson called out exasperatedly as he turned over, his blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He tried to harden his gaze at yet another night of his younger brother sneaking in reading time when he was supposed to be asleep. This made the third night in a row.
The thirteen-year-old had been completely absorbed in a book lately. Benson couldn't quite remember the exact title—something about Emperor Caesar, he thought—but whatever it was, Klein seemed unable to put it down.
"Go to sleep," Benson hissed softly, pitching his voice low enough to be intimidating yet quiet enough not to disturb Melissa, who was sleeping beside him.
He sighed inwardly. The seven-year-old had been especially clingy these past few weeks. Benson suspected it was because of that one time they had tried to persuade her to accept a family willing to adopt her. Looking back, he winced at the memory. It had been cruel—far crueler than he'd realized at the time.
Melissa had cried...
That was the day Benson understood he didn't want to be separated from either of his siblings, not if he could help it.
Only two more years, he reminded himself, and he would be an adult. After that, he could find a proper job—though it would likely be difficult. Still, that was fine. He would face things when the time came.
For the past two years, Benson had been saving every bit of money he could. The orphanage caretakers gave the children small sums whenever they helped with certain tasks, and the Evernight Church had always been generous toward orphaned children.
If he endured just a little longer, perhaps he could build a future where the three of them would never have to be parted.
"Klein," Benson warned when his brother made no move to blow out the oil lamp or return to sleep.
"Come here," he ordered, tugging one arm free from the blanket and waving him over. They were getting bigger now, and Benson's bed had only ever been meant for one—but when had that ever stopped them?
"Come here," he repeated when Klein only pouted at him from across the room. "You can read in the morning," he stressed. "Don't make me stand."
Klein's pout deepened. With a long-suffering sigh, he finally set the book aside and blew out the flame with a petulant huff. The room fell into darkness.
But perhaps out of stubborn pride, he didn't climb into Benson's bed as he usually did. Instead, he flopped dramatically onto his own cot and yanked the blanket over himself, letting out an almost angry humph.
Benson shook his head, equal parts exasperated and amused.
It wasn't until Benson was roused from his light sleep by another body attempting to burrow into his narrow sleeping space that he let out a low groan, shifting groggily to make room for the intruder.
"You," he muttered thickly, though there was no real bite to it. Reaching out blindly, he caught hold of Klein and tugged him closer.
For a brief moment, their legs tangled awkwardly in the blankets as Klein maneuvered himself into place, eventually squeezing between the wall and Melissa, who miraculously continued snoring despite the disturbance.
Once they had settled, Benson draped an arm over both of them. He nudged his nose into his little sister's hair, breathing in the faint scent of soap, and absently ruffled Klein's hair with his other hand.
Surrounded by the steady warmth of his siblings, Benson was soon pulled gently back to sleep.
One of the most absurd things about being a Great Old One trying to stay human was that His barely working intuition suggested solutions that were either comically ordinary—or stupid, really—there were no in-betweens.
Start a family.
Zhou Mingrui stared into the endless, mist-filled Sefirah Castle and took a long, measured pause to reconsider every decision that had led Him here.
Of all possible answers—
This was what His intuition had given him?
"I wake up in the new era of Earth," He muttered dryly into the gray fog, "only to be told this?"
How does one start a family?
Court?
Marriage?
Children?
???