Spoiler warning: Spoilers for LoS
A/N: Hello everyone! I hope you'll enjoy this one-shot about Myron Bentham!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children series, I am only writing this for entertainment purposes.
Myron Bentham loved reading books. He loved the feeling of the old crumbled paper from priceless ancient books between his fingers, he insatiably drank the information written on the pages, his mind buzzing excitedly, ready for another experiment or another ingenious invention. But more than anything, since his early childhood, he loved the fact that books could comfort him, even when the situation seemed hopeless.
He would often wander in the corridors of his huge house that always seemed too big and empty, his mind would go to dark places of his memory that he wished could erase forever. But when he sat in front of the fire in his library, P.T. peacefully dozing at his feet while he would read, a sense of peacefulness and happiness would wash over him, making him forget his troubles. But as soon as he would close the book, his demons would come back for him.
On the outside, he would try to come across as strong and indomitable, which rather difficult given his frail body and his two broken legs that never healed properly. Nevertheless, his intellect and seeming strength had earnt him respect from Sharon, Nim, Mother Dust and Reynaldo. Kim had never been one to admire or respect anyone, he was simply satisfied to work as his assistant, quietly listening to his potential inventions or his betrayal plans without ever peeping a word to the others.
But on the inside, Myron Bentham was a broken man. At night, he tried not to sleep, as he would often be plagued by atrocious nightmares, most of them revolving around his imprisonment by Caul and all the torture he endured in the wights' tower. Instead of sleeping, he would usually make himself some tea and sit there reading in his library until his eyes would close on their own. He would then either curl up on one of the couches, listening to P.T.'s soft snores and trying to convince himself that he was perfectly safe in his house; or on particularly bad nights, he would snuggle against his grimbear, the soft fur of the animal comforting him.
He often found himself wishing that he still had his brother and sister. Granted, they were both still alive, but they weren't in each other's lives anymore. His brother, the madman Caul, was busy torturing peculiars and trying to find the Library of Souls with his army of wights. As for his sister, he hadn't seen Alma nor talked to her since his last trial where he had been accused (and found guilty by the Council of Ymbrynes) of stealing Abe's soul. That trial had been decades ago, but he still remembered perfectly the defeated and devasted look on Alma's face at seeing her brother in court for the umpteenth time. And he remembered the ache in his heart even better. He had hurt his little sister countless times out of selfishness, and he felt weighed down by all the guilt.
He couldn't think of the happy memories of his childhood without tearing up. In the early days, the three siblings loved to assume bird form and race each other. There was no hatred, no violent tendencies, they were just siblings having fun and behaving as any other siblings would behave like. Among his favorite memories were all the times he played chess with Alma. Jack refused to play chess because he would always lose, but Alma was delighted as Myron would let her win every time. While Jack despised chess, he was more than happy to help Myron build various machines, especially if he had been the one to have the idea. He would wander around the house, gloating about his fabulous idea for days on end.
All of that was gone. Myron couldn't even turn into a falcon anymore, the extent of his injuries after Caul tortured him and broke his legs were so bad that his body now refused to shape shift. Technically speaking, his peculiarity was gone, even if he could still understand the language of the birds and communicate with them.
Sometimes, Myron would find himself looking at old pictures, trying to figure where exactly things had started to go awry. No matter how many times he thought everything over, he always concluded that things were mostly his fault. He was the closest one to his brother. He knew about Jack's unhealthy obsession with the Library of Souls. But he had decided to ignore it until everything was too late. He still couldn't believe that once upon a time, he had been best friends with his brother. Jack was only two years older than him, and they did everything together. They would spend hours playing together, exploring their surroundings or building prototypes or doing science experiments. They would comfort each other and help each other whenever it was needed. And yet, that brother was able to turn against him at the slightest doubt about his projects and ambitions, locking him in a cell and leaving him to die.
Myron wanted to slam his head against a wall. He should have known. He should have seen that Jack was not the person he claimed to be. The evidence was before his eyes and yet he had been blind to it. He had watches Jack verbally and sometimes physically abuse their little sister out of jealousy since their early childhood, and he had done nothing. He didn't want to pick sides, which resulted in Alma having no protection against her bully of a big brother. He would occasionally call out Jack on his atrocious behavior, but he was also scared to provoke his bad temper. Sometimes, Alma would come crying to him, telling him all the awful things Jack had said to her, and he could only hold her and reassure her that none of it was true, while the guilt of not standing up for his sister gnawed at him. He bitterly thought that he was a lousy brother.
While Myron was horrified by his brother's behavior, he started to think that he was becoming like him. He started seeing a monster in his reflection when he glanced in the mirror.
He was nowhere as bad or ruthless as Caul, but he had done his fair share of bad deeds. He mentally listed them: he was the one behind the creation of hollows (and consequently wights). Yes, it had been accidental and for defense purposes, but he nevertheless had created the monsters that were responsible of the death of thousands of peculiars.
Then he stole Abe's soul. Abe was his only friend during particularly rough times, he had helped him on more occasions than Myron could count, and Myron had thanked him by tricking him into getting part of his soul removed, which had been a disaster for his peculiarity.
He didn't even bother counting his numerous betrayals, he couldn't think about them without feeling the bile rise in his throat and yet he made the same mistake over and over again. He knew that if the occasion presented itself, if it was advantageous for him, he would still collaborate with the wights. He didn't even know why. He guessed that the temptation of power and success was something he couldn't resist, even at the expanse of other people's lives.
Then there was also his little "experiment", his "wax figures" that were not made of wax at all. He had wanted his Panloopticon to function so badly that he went as far as kidnapping ymbrynes and peculiars from loops to see if they could work as a battery for his machine. Seeing that it wasn't working and not knowing what to do with them, he had blackmailed Mother Dust, forcing her to put them into suspended animation. He flinched when he realized that Caul was basically doing the same thing – kidnapping peculiars- albeit not for the same purpose.
Sighing, Myron went to pick up a book from one of the shelves. Guilt was building up inside him, which he deemed was not good. Some things couldn't be changed. There was no need to feel unnecessarily guilty over bygones. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself, with more or less success.
Despite all the guilt and the dirty secrets, Myron Bentham knew that he would still walk his head held high, smiling and pretending that everything was alright, when everything was in fact falling apart. He had no friends, no family. He was all alone in a house full of assistants and servitors. At least he had P.T., he thought, rubbing the grimbear's shoulder affectionately.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed this one-shot! Don't hesitate to leave a review :) By the way, would anyone be interested in a multi-chapter story revolving around the Bentham siblings' childhood?