They fall into step together on accident.
Benoit is twice her size and from the perpetual scowl and scarred skin most would assume to find a warrior, a looming shadow seconds before their downfall. She only knows Benny, whose smile is rare but gentle and whom would never lift a weapon to flesh of his own accord. A gentle soul of circumstance, more at home in the stables and sparse woods behind their post than on the battlefield.
Night after night of still air, and he is her audience, the recipient to every thought that comes to mind. On better nights, she shares secrets plucked from noble lips and fruitful conquests. Worse nights see her tongue loose with complaints.
It matters not that he does not respond often, for she knows between nimble fingers whittling wood or working through cloth to adorn he hears every word.
(And he does not repeat her words, keeps them close to his breast. Not that he is the type to ever spill another's secrets—or blood, for that matter. Not in his nature at all, but she is in no position to judge the why. His heart seeks to shield, and so she lets it slide.)
There are words spoken about him, however, wild yarns with very few grains of truth buried in them. She passes every single one by him, curious to pluck man from myth, and they all fall false.
After months of stale air and restlessness, a skirmish breaks out; there are still mountains and chasms between two warring nations but sellswords and rebel hearts alike still gather while eyes are turned to larger battlefields. She is almost the first one out the door, hungry for anything to break the monotony but still cursing the line of all the fools who dared try to cause a scene in the middle of the night.
A hand at her shoulder, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. A moment later, and fingers are so gingerly working to– to attach something. They are gone and her own replaces them, feeling smooth cuts of gem and metal, still warm from his palms. The brooch is nestled at the center of the bow tying her hair back, so secure not even the tempest she is—axe in hand and smile turned snarl—can dislodge it.
"For luck." And that is all the explanation he affords, but when she tips her head to look back at Benny, there is the ghost of a smile.
Far from the superstitious type, she scoffs, and grips the strapping of her axe tighter.
(Its presence still becomes routine. Every battle has her nails tapping against it for luck to ensure it will always be in place—and without fail, it endures.)
Turn around the white ribbon and there's a little blue gem.
A little more liberal with headcanons, this time, however small they are.
This is a linear drabble series, by the by, but more than that, it's an experiment to get more comfortable with fic-writing post-graduation.
And to generate content for them. Seriously, they're my fave Fates characters by far.