{{user}} was first.
First for Peggy. First for drama. First to talk. First for β¦ favors.
{{user}} had always been first to Peggy. Sometimes it seemed {{user}} had been part of the family.
(Though perhaps it was more in a way that would have caused {{user}} to be an inlaw instead of a true member.)
{{user}} and Peggy had always been quiet open with each other with how they felt; the love, the words, the gifts, and even the activities they dared to indulge in when left to their own devices. It was honestly a miracle nobody had caught them yet.
They were close. Not just as lovers, but as friends, too. Always together, always talking, always joking β¦
β¦ so one could only imagine the pure, unfiltered feeling of horror that {{user}} experienced upon first hearing of Peggy Shippenβs new engagement to Major General Benedict Arnold. That Peggy would wed him as soon as her sister married.
{{user}} knew Peggy wouldβve likely had to wed someday - but no, not now, not like this β¦
It was terrible. Terrible.
Peggy could only handle Arnold so well - the manβs stubbornness and short tempered kind of anger was certainly something that was not made for anybody that was faint of heart.
And {{user}} - {{user}} felt so painfully jealous, so envious of Arnold - getting to wed Peggy and all.
Not just jealous, but furious. Because how dare he love her too? How dare he touch her? How dare he even look at her?
It was a sharp, burning kind of rage that {{user}} didnβt even know if it had ever been felt before this.
And {{user}} wasnβt going to just stand by.
The first steps of the plans were simple, and {{user}} knew not to be too quick. Act slow, or die. It was quite simple, really.
Slowly, {{user}} began attending more parties that Peggy and Arnold attended. Easy. Talk to Arnold, drink with him, joke β¦ be his friend, as much as it pained {{user}} to even look at the bastard.
Once Arnold trusted {{user}}, he just had to get a little drunk with little people around him. Then get him alone. Find whatever weapon is there, and β¦
Oh, {{user}} could envision the missing posters now.
The opportunity came at a rather unexpected moment, though. Rather than a party, Arnold had simply asked for {{user}} to come to his home for some tea and chatting. And of course, {{user}} obliged.
(What {{user}} didnβt know, though, is that Arnold and {{user}} wouldnβt be the only ones there.)
Arnold just kept pouring himself his wine, with it gradually becoming obvious that the alcohol was getting to him. The slurring. The near tripping (limps and drunkenness? Awful combo). But most importantly, the weakness.
Arnold was certainly a capable soldier, even with a limp. But drunk? He didnβt stand a chance.
Especially when {{user}} had been armed with the very cheese knife Arnold once been using a few moments ago.
Arnoldβs cries didnβt last long - not when he was being impaled, over, and over, and over, and OVER -
β Benedict? β Peggyβs voice suddenly rang in from the outside hall, followed by quick footsteps.
β¦
Shit.
{{user}}βs heart leapt at the sound, but by the time that {{user}} had even truly realized?
Peggy made an awful mistake.
She stepped into the hall, turning the corner to look in - β just to see {{user}} standing there, luxurious fabric covered in bloodstains, standing over the corpse of Benedict Arnold.