Old Blood [Solo]

Silence wasn’t the appropriate word. The dank stillness which pervaded the fortress of ancient stone birthed far more than just quiet. It was anything but tranquil. Far less than appealing. The cold air, stagnant with the abuse of time, stifled each dust-laden antique and draping tapestry into surreal petrification: threatening to suffocate even the Keese if they dared to so much as breathe too loud.

Thick curtains of faded colour trailed languidly across the stone floor, not quite meeting in the middle where a blade of crisp, white light peeled through. To the left, to the right, even up high above the family portrait, not every grand window was neatly blinded. Specks of dust clouded the intruding beams in smoky swirls. Shadows of flurried snowflakes bled down the backs of worn furniture. Against the muffled howls of one of Snowpeak’s steepest summits not even the faintest of droplets could be caught echoing. Whatever liquid had managed to creep through the cracks of the stronghold had promptly frozen upon contact; icicles were as comfortable a decoration as the frosted chandeliers. The oppression of the forgotten had bewitched the Dragomir household, trapping it in a loophole of eternity. Untouched. Alone.

Until the first visitor in many years yawned open the grand doors.

Cobwebs shuddered. The gales roared. And in an abrupt blast of snow that rattled and stirred all but the most permanent of fixtures, a tall silhouette of a man drew out his shadow upon the hallway floor. He hesitated at the brink, and the longer he waited the more the ice-white pooled before his feet. A flutter of wings in the corner caught his eye. A strange creak atop the opposing stairway sent a shiver colder than the elements down his spine. Was he really alone? Had this really been his home?

With caution Faust stepped forwards and yawned the doors to a close behind him, effectively snuffing all life of the outside into a phantom of the past. His pulse sounded louder than the wind. His breath plumed in obscuring silver before his eyes. It came as almost a relief when he forced himself to stride forwards, the footfall of his steel-capped boots ringing out against the walls before returning to his ears, reminding him that his own company was good enough.

Nonetheless it was a thought that was difficult to stomach when his stare rediscovered and lingered upon his family portrait: the spectacled smart-ass brother who hugged his hefty book like a teddy bear, the compassionate warm smile of a seated and pregnant mother, the stern, militaristic posture of his upright father with a smile lingering in the corner of his lips. One of the six brothers had just cracked a joke – about a Yeti who thought the moon was made of cheese, if Faust remembered right – but it still wasn’t enough to break open the father’s stubborn outer shell and reveal his soft heart for that which he refused it was, no matter how much the mischievous middle-child teased and pestered him with vibrant grins. Meanwhile the ‘spectacular-trio’, as they liked to name themselves, were wrapped up in each other’s arms with leaning elbows and lax grips, striking staged pompous poses for time to capture and jeer at later. And, of course, in true character behind them stood the oldest with a glare of disapproval, a young man a spitting image of his steel-clad father: as if the artist had painted the head of the household again but twenty years younger. The similarities were so drastically flawless that Faust almost laughed but then he saw himself, a little naive boy right in the middle of them all, kept warm by their contrasting personalities, drama and conversations as he looped his arms around his mother’s neck in a possessive embrace. She was smiling at him, and he was beaming back. Mother, father, Victor, Charles, Athos, Prothos, Aramis, Basil: in one way or another they were all connected, whether it was by a fleeting a touch, a knowing look, a gauntlet that wanted to dish out a good slap or a playful nudge.

And now they’re all dead. Except me. Just me and Frederick.

The doctor lost his strength and collapsed back into his father's favourite armchair, a mist of grief and dust clouding his eyes as he continued to stare at the very painting that brought him both grief and joy. The worst thing about memories was just that: they were memories.

He could still hear the lyrical voice of the always eloquent Charles and his gibes, the snotty huff of the intellectual Basil when Victor was praised instead, the chorus of laughter from Athos, Prothos and Aramis, the way his father had awkwardly cleared his throat and flushed when he was caught by Faust collecting Mother's favourite flowers, and how she had kissed him sweetly in thanks - much to the vocal disgust of many of the children. The bouquet was still on her lap, but at the end of the day it was just a painting and the rest existed only in Faust's head.

- Some Days Ago, in Castle Town -​

“Are you taking Frederick with you?”

“Why? Jealous?”

The feeble noble scoffed in reply but could do nothing against that taunting smirk of Faust’s. It stripped him bare, laid naked his heart, with all the brutal, confident persistence only a brother could pull off. Dorian could do nothing but wince and smile as he endured the pain. “Perhaps.” He admitted, eyes awkwardly averted as a blush seeped onto his pale cheeks. “Maybe just a little.”

“Only just a little?” The doctor pressed, his toothy grin growing.

“Oh please, Faust. Even if I confessed all you wouldn’t be able to take me with you anyway.” He tried not to huff like a spoilt brat but it was an impulse which was hard to stifle. Nonetheless his pride was wounded and stinging. Just how many times must he be reminded of his pathetic, infirm body? He could barely even use his bedpan without assistance! And even then, maybe just maybe, if his adopted brother insisted on dragging him up the snowy mountains he would have to decline anyway. He was enough trouble for everyone around him as it was.

So I should continue to sit here in my wooden, wheeled chair, wrapped up in my blanket like some pet old fart waiting to be fed and watered by maids like every other day of my miserable existence instead. His fingers clawed fistfuls of the fabric laid on his lap, the bitter frustration whitening his knuckles. Dorian mustn’t have noticed the fury and disgust warping his expression because he started at Faust’s touch as the man laid a rugged hand on top of one of his own. Unlike all the others, like his grandiloquent and overbearing parents, the gossiping maids, or the scoffing 'friends' of his fellow class, the doctor didn’t look at him with sickening pity or revulsion. It was warmth and only warmth of a genuine friend that softened Faust’s coal-black eyes. Oh, and a spark of wilful mischief.

“Shall we run away together?” Faust proposed.

Dorian felt his brow furrow and an uncomfortable little laugh fall in surprise from his lips. “You can’t be saying that in earnest.” He challenged.

“Have I ever gone back on my word?”

“Faust!”

“The only reason you feel so crap about your life is because of your shitty, conceited arsehole excuses of paren-” A hand clapped swiftly over the doctor’s foul mouth, smothering its volume before it swelled any louder. Faust’s expression quickly turned hard with muted irritation but Dorian simply hissed at him. He may not be able to dress himself but that didn’t mean he had no balls! This man didn’t scare him! Not-…that much…

“Goddesses be damned, Faust! Be quiet! What if they hear you?!”

The doctor raised a cocky eyebrow that held all the attitude of a ‘so-what’ teenager, to which the noble was left almost speechless: despite the fact that he should know better by know. It was only after an exhausted sigh and a peel of his lips over barred teeth that he removed his hand in defeat and growled to one side, “They ARE your parents too.”

“No they’re not.” Faust retorted with a spiteful snigger.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Faust, they’ve raised you since you were fifteen!”

“I raised myself with their money.”

“And Frederick? What they’ve done for him? You don’t feel at all indebted to them? How can you badmouth them like that behind their backs? They HELPED you whether you like it or not. Who knows where you and your little brother be if it hadn’t been for them!”

Faust paused before his own argument was fired, halted lips taking a moment of silence before sealing closed for good in a grim, restrained line. His eyes had grown dark, severe and blazing with a black fire as his brow pressed them down into narrow slits.

Dorian felt an uncomfortable lump form in his throat. He couldn’t hold such lethal, furious eye contact for longer than a few seconds before a slight sweat broke out on his sickly skin and he had to turn away, guilty and admittedly a little scared. He was regretting his outburst. It was the truth but he still regretted giving it a voice. He had hurt perhaps the only person who truly cared for him and all just because somewhere, deep inside, he was still his parents’ son: no matter how badly they treated him. If only friendship was thicker than blood.

“I used to.” Faust at last spoke, the words hushed like a monologue. When Dorian risked a glance in his direction he felt his chest twist: the man looked almost crushed, far more sorrowful now than angry. “I used to feel like I owed them something. A whole lot actually. More than I could ever afford no matter how hard I worked or what I sacrificed for their benefit.”

“Then why...?” The decrepit noble couldn’t bring himself to finish. The last few, unspoken words hung like dead air between them in a silence that took its time to fade.

“Because then I learned about how they treated you and I decided that no-one owes them anything. They don’t deserve my gratitude, and they most certainly don’t deserve you.” His eyes were blazing with determined conviction and Dorian felt his own melt under their ardent stare as they flashed up at him, a glimmer of a tear collecting in one corner.

“Faust…I’m sorry I-…”

A lopsided smile fiddled with Faust’s mouth. He made sure to interrupt him before a whole waterfall started. “Fallen for me yet?”

He got the laugh he was looking for - if a little breathless. “Yeah. If only you were that smooth with actual women.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Sorry.”

“What? You still won’t run away with me?”

“…I…”

A victorious chuckle all teasing charm lit up the doctor’s face, admittedly a little forced but grasping desperately for his own humour for the benefit of them both nonetheless. “You’re thinking about it!” He accused with delight.

“NO I’m not!”

“Oh yes you were. Admit it. You want to.”

“I-“

“Say yes!”

“Bu-!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Maybe?”

“Perhaps.”

“Likely?”

“Not!”

“Are you male?”

“What in Hyrule…yes, yes I am.”

“Blonde?”

“Yes.”

“Allergic to custard?”

“...Yes.”

“Coming?”

“Ye-…Hey!”

A laugh boomed from Faust’s very gut. He promptly accused the noble with a jab of one finger that wagged right at the young man’s blundering shame. “That’s it! No going back on your word now!”

“But I-!...That’s not fair! I didn’t even properly say the full word. You can’t do that! It doesn’t count! It…er…Fuck.” He didn’t actually want to resist it anymore. He was happy - too happy - that it had turned out this way. It was embarrassing but it was also worth it. In the end he was scared of fighting the opportunity so hard it’d disappear altogether, so he simply swallowed his pride and just swore: to which the doctor gasped in mock horror.

“How dare you say that! What a shitty mouth you have!”

“You taught me!” He retaliated with a defiant flush, all balled fists.

“…I…suppose I did.” Faust quickly recovered from his playful bafflement and self-reflection, to then instead comfortably hang an arm around his adopted brother’s frail shoulders. With a devious grin that made him look like a little boy again he offered, “Want me to teach you some more?”

“You’re so-…UGH!”

“And you love it.” He beamed with knowing eyes, and Dorian really couldn't argue with that.

"FAUST! Faaaaaaust! Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuusssssssttt!!!" Cried bloody vengeance.

In true Frederick style, the little boy came blazing onto the scene in the midst of another temper tantrum: only this time, he was armed and deadly. Well, not so deadly really but the way Dorian suddenly startled with an anything but masculine squeak you'd think the kid had transformed into a berserk Darknut. Unfortunately there was scarcely time to laugh let alone tease the poor soul, because Frederick had ground to an unsteady halt right in front of them and was ready to beat the doctor to a pulp apparently. The ten year old looked about ready to explode: he was literally shaking with flustered rage, so red in fact he might even faint in this heat.

"WHERE'S MY CAKE?!!! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY CAKE?!!!" The boy roared like a Lynel babe, waving his wooden practice sword around in as threatening a manner as he could manage. "WHERE IS IT?!!!"

"...Cake...?" Faust repeated with an elevated eyebrow, obviously quite confused: and far too amused to think that clearly. It was a genuine struggle to keep his laughter sealed away as he watched the child bloat even hotter with fury at his ignorance.

"THE STRAWBERRY ONE!!! FROM MY FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY BALL LAST WEEK!!! I SCRAPED OFF THE ICING BECAUSE IT WAS ICKY!!! YOU ATE IT DIDN'T YOU?!! YOU DID YOU DID YOU DID YOU ATE IT AGAIN!!!"

Realisation sparked in Faust's face, swiftly followed by a hard, round, "Ah" that dropped from his lips.

"'Ah....?' AAAAAH?!!! WHAT SORT OF CONFESSION IS THAT?!!!"

"Okay maybe I should leave you two to i-"

"Ah! Not so fast!" Faust braked the slippery snake by jamming a boot between the spokes of his chair's left wheel. As the horror took its time sinking into Dorian's gut, the older brother dragged him back securely between himself and the frenzied child. "You stay right there." He ordered.

"You're going to use me as a shield?!!!" The noble blundered. "Really?!! I thought better of you! Look at me! I'm infirm!"

"And I thought you wanted to be treated just like everyone else." Faust retorted in a whisper of a snicker.

Dorian's heart sank with speechless dismay. Several more times he attempted to free himself from his capturer but it was all futile: just how damn strong was Faust's good leg anyway?! All he had for his protection was a damned blanket too! How was that going to be off help if the little Miniblin of a kid ended up poking his eye out?! There-...there was nothing for it but to hide. Perhaps even just a little extra padding would keep him safe. So the sickly, noble son succumbed to his cowardice and quickly began cocooning himself in fabric.

"E-Enough!" Stuttered the child as his eyes fluttered between the two. "Stop distracting me! DON'T WHISPER! Don't plot! Don't make excuses! You ate my cake, didn't you, Faust?!"

"...Yeah." He admitted after a moment's contemplation of whether he should come clean or not. "I did. With cream too."

"WWWWWWWWHY?!!!!!!!" Frederick erupted as if a pet cat had just died.

"It looked tasty. And it was. Besides, if I didn't eat it I'm sure Dorian would've. He was asking after it just now actually."

"WHAT" Dorian choked. "No I di-" The supposed doctor yanked the blanket back down over his face.

"But it was mine!"

"I'll buy you another one." Faust tried to negotiate. Unfortunately the child had gotten bored of pounding his feet with frustration on the floor and desperately needed to stab him. So the boy screamed. The man jolted. And just in time he took cover behind Dorian as the practice sword struck hard against the wheelchair - with a shrill, startled scream from its sitter.

"UNHAND HIM!" Frederick demanded with another violent swing of his toy. "COME OUT AND FACE ME LIKE A MAN!"

"A man?" Faust pressed, peeking out over the top of the chair. "A true man-to-man fight?"

"YES! WE WILL SETTLE THIS WITH STRENGTH!" After pausing for a moment the child tore off one glove and flung it down onto the floor with a loud slap. "I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!!!"

"But I'm unarmed."

"And I'm tiny!!! So what! Are you scaaaared? Too wuss to pay for your crimes, huh?!" Oh goddesses forbid, this one was getting cocky.

"Alright then." The doctor decided.

"Alright then!" His little brother echoed as he bounced side-to-side in hyperactive anticipation, ready to dodge anything that was thrown at him. Or-...not. After swiftly launching a fistful of flowerbed in the child's face, Frederick stumbled, squealed and then felt his weapon torn straight from his sweaty, desperate grasp. He still couldn't quite see properly by the time he was slung across Faust's shoulder and left to hang there: but that didn't stop him pounding his fists and feet against the Hylian giant anyway. "MOMMAAA!!! PAPA!!!! I'M BEING ABDUCTED!!!! WWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! YOU BIG FAT MEANIE!!!"

"I'm not fat!"

"YOU WILL BE!!! YOU KEEP EATING MY CAKE!!! AND MY CANDY!!! AND MY PASTRIES!!! FAT FAT FAT! YOU FATTIE! YOU'RE GONNA GET SO FAT ONE DAY I'LL BE ABLE TO JUST ROLL YOU OUT THE PANTRY!!! AND I'LL LAUGH AT YOU! I'LL LAUGH SO HARD!!!"

"To be fair I'm only saving you from getting fat." Faust suggested, wincing a little as he endured the little menace's endless assault. At this rate he was going to slip, but then, when he actually shifted and tightened an arm to hold him securely in place, the brat was anything but grateful. On the contrary he hated it.

"WHAT IF I WANNA BE FAT?!!"

"That's unhealthy, Frederick. As a doctor I cannot tolerate that."

"YOU HIPPODIT!"

"Hypocri-*"

"WHATEVER!!!"

And so, just like that, the duo not so happily waltzed around the hedge, through the gate, and 'into the horizon': a doctor and his captive little brother, a hardly sweet though perhaps amusing sight. Five minutes later Dorian could still hear them bickering and cringed everytime a disturbed, angry housewife threatened to throw sewage down at the two. But at least now the blonde-haired noble could finally breathe an exhausted sigh of relief and push his heart back down his throat to where it should belong normally.

"Young master!" Blundered a panicked servant as he came stumbling into the garden with too many weapons to hold and a spear near impaling his right foot as he ground to a halt. "What happened! Where's Frederick?!! Who took him?!"

"Just Faust." Dorian assured with a wave of one hand, and the servant understood the situation instantly: though it took a while for his steam to cool off, let alone crawl away with speechless embarrassment to put all the weapons back in their suitable racks. He's a mean bastard sometimes, that Faust, but why is leaving the grounds?

Unbeknownst to all - even his captive - the doctor was heading to the bakery. Not just any bakery mind you but the very same, expensive place that had supplied the strawberry cake. I won't be able to afford any lollipops for a whole week. The doctor grumbled to himself, and shifted the child into a safer nook on his shoulder once more. At least now his back was getting so numb he hardly noticed the blows any more.

"BIG FAT MEAAAANIEEEE!!!"

"Do you want shit on your head?"

"NO!"

"How about piss?"

"STOP USING BAD WORDS! I'LL TELL MOMMA ON YOU!"

"What about an ice-cream?"

"N-...what...? Are you getting me an ice-cream? What about my cake though?"

"I'll get you both."

"O-oh...Okay..."

- Day Before Departure, in Castle Town - ​

"Oh? Are these for Frederick too?" Mrs Glitterpopper cooed with shrill opera volume, as always. Right next to the giant, boxed cake of silk ribbons and flair an assortment of sweet baked treats were also packaged. Iced, yellow rabbit heads with long marshmallow filled ears and chocolate button noses and eyes, were slotted in between Keaton heads of a very similar nature.

"What? No. They're mine." Faust hastily clarified. He grabbed the bag from the lady's plump fingers to secure it instead inside his own luggage.

"They're...yours?" Mrs Glitterpopper repeated, dumbfounded. "But dear aren't you a little...too old...perhaps?" She suggested timidly. There was such an awkward pucker to her large brow and tiny mouth you'd think the doctor had been caught selling Razor Seeds to morally-questionable addicts.

"There're age limits on food?"

"Well...no. But dear those are a little bit childish, don't you think?" Her large, crisp blue eyes slide cautiously down to Faust's luggage. Don't tell me she's thinking of stealing them? What's with that look anyway?

"I think they're cute." He admitted. "They're Hyoi pear flavoured too." For a brief flicker of a moment he debated offering her one but his selfishness quickly overwrote that thought and he pressed the snacks deeper inside his bag, covering it with a stash of multicoloured lollipops and some spare clothes for extra padding.

"Well...if that's what makes you happy." Mrs Glitterpopper squeaked with resignation. She restrained a little, judgemental sigh and returned reluctantly to advising the servants on what to and not to pack for spoilt little Frederick.

Of course, she wasn't even thinking of her true son whose bags laid open and ready but still completely empty. The poor lad wasn't even in the same room because she was there: they'd been avoiding each other for years until it had developed into a natural habit. It was actually more surprising that they continued to allow him to reside in the same house as them instead of shipping him off to the other side of the map. And yet the idiot still defends them, Faust snarled with a pang of sickness at Dorian's passionate outburst yesterday. After all that his mother had done to him, after all of the times his father acted like he never even existed at all...Just how big was that fool's heart? Faust's own twisted with spiteful resentment.

He didn't even bother asking Mrs Glitterpopper about Dorian: whether it really was okay for him to come with them up Snowpeak. Rather than what you'd usually expect from your blood parents, if anything the doctor got the nauseating, infuriating feeling that she'd be glad to get rid of the son she was so ashamed of: and hoped that he'd never come back. The bitch.

Faust stopped arranging his own luggage with a growling huff, to instead go find something to put in the forgotten brother's own; though to fair, he just couldn't stomach being in the same room as his 'mother' for too long. He made sure to steal a bunch of Mr Glitterpopper's finest liquor while he was at it and actually had quite the merry time judging Dorian's choice in undergarments.

Oh my fuck. Really? Is that a Wizzrobe head on the crotch? HA! Oh I'm packing that. Definitely. He's even got matching socks!

- Back to the Present, in the Dragomir Mansion -​

He should drag the bags in. He really should. There was nothing but wild, man-eating beasts and frostbite in this remote corner of Snowpeak but nonetheless who knew how spiteful the Goddesses were feeling today. With Faust's luck it'd be this day, at this hour, right here that a curious Yeti would stumble by and claim the 'abandoned' loot for his own curious whims. It wasn't unheard of.

But do I have to? Right now?

Sapped with the effort of holding back tears, and having at last warmed up a rather comfortable spot in the antique armchair, the doctor was feeling anything but motivated to attend to life's chores. A frosted, exhausted sigh smoked from his lips and his head knocked back against the cushioned frame, hazy stare lingering on the gleams of iced brass hung above. The subtle sparkles were almost bewitching. Unsettling as it had at first felt, even the distant creaks and groans of presumed warped floorboards had became part of the spell. Smothered wind howled against the stone walls and softly rattled glass window panes. The chimney breast wailed with tormented phantoms. A Keese shuffled its wings. Sleep was coming.

Slow, steady, cautious, fatigue was nursing Faust's eyelids to a heavy close. He tried to fight it but the energy just wasn't there. His limbs ached and complained every time he so much as twitched them: back sore, shoulders tight, the soles of his feet still burning. Even his parched throat would rather he just sit there silently, listening to his own deep breath as it swelled his chest in smooth repetition. The darkness of comfort closed in and his eyes fell, looking one last time with a bittersweet smile at the still, painted faces of his family.

He thought he saw a cheek a twitch, an eye drift, lips part, but grief did awful things to the sane. Ripped apart, the scars of the past were still fresh and trying to scab over, so Faust thought nothing of it. He didn't even look twice when his peripheral vision caught two silent orbs of blood red glowing out from the shadows. Instead he succumbed into blissful, ignorant sleep.

The chill came first: ice against the skin, nails across the hair, goosebumps in the wake of a stranger's touch. It jolted the man awake in a vocal, heaving gasp for air as he was ripped right out of the depths of sleep. He stared, eyes frozen wide open, and the abyss stared back.

Silence.

The streaks and pools of dimly lit colour retracted into solid forms. The shadows fizzled. His head hummed. The pound of his heart in his ears thundered throughout the room. The only thing that was watching him, as he recollected himself within his chair, was dead and dull: eight pairs of painted eyes leering down at him with hollow smiles, hands kept tidily within the safety of their frame. Then the perpetrator? Perhaps just another figment of his imagination; the room was still swaying and he was breathing too quickly to make out much else but phantoms in the swirling silver.

Another nightmare. The doctor scowled, swallowing back his rampant pulse. His glove rose, not a second too late, to wipe the cold sweat off of his brow just in time before it froze. How stupid to think that I'd sleep any better here. He winced against the shivering touch of cold leather but buried his face in it nonetheless, fingers through his white mane, palms at his eyes, massaging out the headache with a strain of his gritted teeth.

Too many minutes later, the man rose to his feet full of shakes and aches, leaning one hand on the chair's arm for support. It took time for him to stabilise, but no longer than he needed to then walk back towards the ancient entranceway where he groaned open the doors and dragged in his bags. The collected snow was heavy and almost doubled the weight causing the sledge to shriek across the stone floor in brief pulses of faltering strength: one after the other, persistent if nothing else - and Faust winced every time. The piercing echoes deafened him and he was more than just relieved when he could finally seal the doors shut again and suffocate those ruthless, blistering gales.

Silence.

His lips were turning blue, though he didn't know it. He couldn't feel his nose or cheeks anymore.

He pulled the fur hood up as tightly pressed against his face as possible before busying himself shedding his luggage of its coating, chunks and flutters of snow yielding to his sharp strikes. It wasn't important but it gave him some peace of mind nonetheless. Repetition did good things for nerves and he didn't want to keep suspecting the shadows any more. He was exhausted, though he'd already slept. Too tired to feed his fear any longer though it kept on eating away at him anyway.

He ignored it.

Silence.

Then pain. More pain. Too much discomfort to be just that, Faust began the tiresome labour of dragging his bags down through the hallway, around through the lounge, up to the stairs, then one by one by one and another up the steps with hard, dull blows that sounded out like alarms behind him. Darkness flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision. The daylight was fading. The colour was dying. But up the doctor dragged his luggage nonetheless until he turned into a new hallway at its peak and saw the warmth of a fire.

To be terrified or delighted? It was only him here. Apparently.

The fluttering of hot oranges and yellows which danced so wildly across the wooden planks at the end of the corridor instilled within Faust more than he could describe. He yearned for it: that warmth, in the most primal of necessary desires. So he drew closer and warmer whether it was from him, by him or not. He would have it and have it he did, the unlocked door whining against his brushing touch as it unleashed the blazing light of the fire in all its blinding glory. He winced. Expected his head to roll. Yet what awaited him when anxious impatience made him brave again was anything but danger.

On the contrary the sleeping chamber was cozy. No, more than that. There was a peculiar scent in the air too like- ah! Flowers! Fresh flowers stood in multiple vases around the room in colourful bouquets, while fabric from tapestries to thick quilts and furry rugs covered anything that dared threaten to instil cold within the beholder. The bedding looked fresh - smelt it too - it was clean and smooth and unused. Several plump cushions were delicately placed upon the one armchair and was that-...was that tea upon the little table? Sat resting in a dainty piece of fine china?

Faust could see the thin trail of steam from here. Another hallucination? This time a dream to balance out the nightmares? For the sake of his sanity?

No. It was real.

Drawn quite literally like a moth to a flame, the doctor yanked in his luggage and snapped shut the door behind him to hold in the warmth of the cackling fireplace. There were few places for anyone to hide in here but he checked anyway: peeking under the bed, drawing open the wardrobe, even at one point debating looking up the chimney. Fears sated as much as possible by the routines of logic, it was only then that Faust settled down in the chair prepared - apparently - for him and eyed up the unassuming teacup at his side.

And what if it's poisoned? The man questioned himself with a troubled brow.

If this drink was indeed not his then it would make no sense: who would poison their own drink? And if it was meant for him...he was a doctor, not an executioner - to the best of his abilities - so there shouldn't be anyone set on killing him: in fact barely a handful of names sprang to mind.
Then maybe the others got here first. But why leave the drink here and not even initiate a greeting? He hadn't heard anyone walking around earlier either. But then I was making a huge racket by myself dragging all this shit up.

The burning ache of his throat demanded he stopped trying to reason with Death and Fate and after only a few more moments of deliberation Faust lifted the teacup with sigh, sniffed - as if he could smell poison - and downed the whole thing all in one! It stung and it seared but by Din it tasted good and was exactly what he had needed. Somehow. But it was amazing really how all his needs began to stack up, one by one, every time Faust tried to deal with them. First the cold, then the thirst, and now...now the hunger...

The doctor's gut growled and he pressed a hand against it in an attempt to muffle it, a little flustered in the company he suspected but could not see nor hear. His cheeks burned. An awkward cough cleared his throat. Then...something even more amazing than his shameful, base desires and their ceaseless nagging appeared. For no sooner had he unwillingly fiddled apart and off his hefty jacket to keep it sweat-free when his eyes noticed a plate of cooked steak, set with a silver cutlery right next to the teacup he had just placed down.

Had it been there before? Was he really going mad?

Faust's stare snapped around the room with a crack of his neck and an agitated heart-rate but everything was...just exactly as it was before. Not even the curtains tied neatly at the corners of the bedposts had shifted in the wake of some untraceable spirit.

"FAUST! FAUST?! Faust are you here?!"

"It seems like he is though."

"Yeah...but then why's he not answering? Do you think he can't hear us?"

"I guess. This place does look pretty massive."

"And creepy. Very creepy...but don't tell Faust that I said that!"

"Do you think I want to be used as a human shield again?"

"Hah. Yeah. You've got a point. You have no balls for that, coward!"

"...So are you going to stand there and poke fun at me all day, or are you actually going to help me out?"

"Can I do both?"

"...I miss Faust."

"...Yeah...Where is he? Do you think he got eaten by Redead? Or even Gibdo?!"

"What about Poes? I even saw some Keese a minute ago."

"EEEK! YOU'RE TELLING ME THIS NOW?!!"

"Haha. Now look who's the one with no balls!"

"Drats. Shut up! I'm only ten!"

"So I can treat you like a kid then?"

"Wha-I...er... FAAAAAUST!!!"

"Alright ready, geez. I heard you!" Faust hollered down the staircase, startling his new company. If his voice hadn't appeared before his looming silhouette had they probably would've suffered from some cardiac arrest too. "It's about time you two showed up though. I feel like I've wasted away half of my life waiting you guys." The doctor huffed, shooting them a look of grumpy disapproval as he leaned both elbows on top of the hallways's robust, wooden banister: one thumb wiping the remnants of the steak's sauce off the corner of his mouth.

"Aaaw. Then you missed us?" Frederick teased with an infectious albeit irritating grin.

"Hey," Dorian interrupted with a prod of an elbow. "Isn't it obvious enough already? I mean look at that! Not only did he get a fire started but he cleaned up a little and laid out some food."

"Heheh. So sweet."

"Very. He'll make a great housewife one day." The two brothers promptly formed love-hearts with their fingers and leered up Faust with boisterous laughter.

Growling, flushed, the doctor was on the brink of throwing the loosest piece of furniture down at their heads in retaliation of his pride when the truth of their words sunk in and he froze. His heart was in his throat again and his stare hardened with increasing suspicion as he tried to swallow it back down.

Then it wasn't the servants that did all of that?

With a thundering pulse he stood and stared as he watched Dorian's head butler order the handful of maids around the foyer and lounge: dragging luggage, unpacking the dusters, too busy with the first tasks of their entry to manage to do any of the rest. While the hired men who had quite literally dragged the nobleman up the mountain appeared to still be outside doing Goddesses-knew-what: maybe the butler had told them they weren't allowed inside, though that was a tad harsh, even in Faust's books.

Frowning, anxious, the doctor's brow furrowed and he found himself a little on edge with silent terror as his youngest brother took the initiative to take the first bite of the banquet. The kid loved it. Scarcely a minute later the spoilt brat was wolfing down the rest, much to the panicked horror of Dorian who wheeled as quickly as he could towards the table to interrupt Frederick's selfish destruction. They bickered, but Faust didn't really hear any of it: the words slurred into nothing but background noise as all the cogs in his mind ticked away.

Someone was definitely here. Or rather, something. I just hope there's no hidden price to all of this, or any ulterior motives. Though the more 'it' gave and the more he took, the less he was able to believe anything else.

"Do you really like it that much?" Faust scoffed, sniggering at his little brother as he dragged out his own chair at the table.

The kid was far too consumed by the enthralling pleasures of starved gluttony to reply with much else other than an eager nod and some unintelligible (disgustingly open-mouthed) grunts of what the doctor presumed were meant to be words. Witness to his ravenous appetite, a stranger would think he had been left to grow up on the streets, the rude sod! Well, for a time he was. But many years of spoilt indulgence, thanks to almost fanatical, ridiculously fawning foster parents, should’ve long erased those troubled times by now. Besides, he was too young to remember what Faust went through back then.

“I never knew you were such a great cook, Faust!” Dorian exclaimed with marvelling disbelief as he happily nibbled on a fork-full of Wolfos liver. The statement had such a weight of awe to it that the doctor almost thought him sarcastic and levelled a hard stare at him accordingly.

“Am I?”

“Most definitely.” He purred without hesitance. “Perhaps you should cook again at some point.”

“That won’t be happening.” He snipped.

“Why ever not?!” The noble exclaimed, unable to decide between looking absolutely mortified and a spoilt pout.

“Because if you’re basing your opinions on this meal alone, you’ve been deceived.” Faust clarified, frowning. He certainly wasn’t going to take praise which he hadn’t earned himself but his company seemed very adamant that on the contrary he had: especially with that look in the blonde noble’s eye. He was laughing at him, he knew it. His radiant blue eyes had crinkled with snickering, Keaton-esque mirth in that usual habit which was both irritating and charming.

“Oh?” Dorian practically hummed. “You didn’t?”

“I didn’t.”

“You know if you’re embarrassed with all our compliments you just have to say so. You don’t have to keep making up excuses to hide it. Unless…” A glint sparkled in his smile and Faust felt his face scrunch in an instinctive, defensive cringe. “…you have someone hidden here? A girl, perhaps?”

“Oh of course.” The doctor bit sarcastically. “Eight of them in fact. I’m building up a harem.”

“Ahts ah ‘harhrum’?” Frederick piped up, face plastered with food.

“Harem*.” Faust corrected with open disgust. He had absolutely no inclinations whatsoever to get his hands dirty with that mess but then the damned pig started choking on his food and as a doctor – and a brother – he had to do something. So he promptly started assaulting his little back with sharp strikes while one of the servants scrambled in a panic for a napkin of some sort.

“Actually, now that you mention it, I don’t believe I know what a harem is either!” Dorian exclaimed with mock surprise. Faust swiftly glared at him but the noble was determined to see his act through to the bitter end. “Pray, do tell, Faust!” He nudged with an angel’s voice and a devil’s sly intent.

“You know what? I’ll go read up on it first before letting you know.”

Dorian burst out laughing as the doctor escaped onto his feet and fled back up the stairs, leaving the poor kid dumbfounded and still whining for an answer of which no-one in the room felt willing to give.

“BUHT WATS AH HARHRUM?!” His food-muffled voice continued to bellow. “‘Ahn I ave uhn?”

It was books which had resurrected Faust in his youth, and it was books again within which the doctor now sat buried, nose deep, attention gripped, with one spare hand languidly scrawling out notes on scraps of nearby parchment. How he would ever be able to decipher them later was a troubling mystery, but for now it was of no pressing importance.

Keeping his intellect sharpened was the must, like a blade at a delayed visit to the hot forges of the smithy. Too long he’d abused his studious habits in favour of running his surgery, and though hands-on education was also vital it was all about striking a balance between the two if he were ever to achieve his ambitions: grounding them from the fleeting, wispy dreams of clouds they were into the very tangible realities he knew he could grasp with success if he earnestly tried. He’d felt the rust collect upon his wits and now, now it was time to scrape it all off with stubborn determination and awakened routine. He hadn’t just come back home to reminisce in its age-old scent and bloodied memories, but rather to take advantage of the mansion’s incredible isolation: it was the ideal environment for incubating relentless study.

So the rhythm of the printed word found its pace under Faust’s scrutinising stare and its sweeping glides. The page turned promptly every two minutes and his fingers began to ache under the strain of their repetitive labour, their uncomfortable plight ignored nonetheless and dulled by time enough to leave them forgotten with relative ease. Candle flames and the crackling fireplace stood with vigilant warmth throughout. They basked the room in a timeless, golden light that burned the glass chandeliers like hot metal and hushed all else into a still sleep under the hypnotic shifts of burning orange and rich yellows.

A robust grandfather clock chimed the passing hour. Melting ice dripped in the corner in-between. Somewhere past the locked door and through the labyrinth of stone walls Frederick giggled. A muffle of voices a floor below described a hushed conversation with speakers of a noticeable age gap. And just down the nearest corridor a servant was busied dusting off an antique set of armour.

Then Faust was interrupted by the tiresome revelation that his quill’s ink had run dry and he’d been writing blank for at least three paragraphs now. There were no more glass inkwells in the room – he lamented with a grating sigh that he should’ve packed more – and so was left to the chore of discovering new ones: hopefully in the stock his father had once used (and hopefully also left untainted by any robberies) if not instead in the luggage of his companions. He called for a servant but no-one answered. And when, after indulging in a frustrated growl, Faust got to his feet to hunt one down himself he stepped into a corridor of sleeping darkness. The only thing that greeted him here was silence.

The doctor paused on the brink of his cosy room before thinking better of waking everyone up with his selfish bellows and instead retreated back into the warmth to find a candlestick that could be transported with relative ease. With this he was kept company as he returned to the corridor, the darkness held at bay by the weak flame but doing nothing to quell that anxious fear he felt bud in his chest again.

Perhaps it’s just the loneliness, Faust remarked to himself. Yet it was hard to deny that this place did terrible things to the mind, with or without all the past that lay trapped between its brickwork and polished decorations.

When the doctor finally escaped the silent maze and its gradually accumulating terror, Faust discovered his father’s library to be a sight hardly any more settling. His musty cologne could be smelt on the edge of the threshold and in every direction the ghost of his presence lingered: from the open, hefty volume of military tactics that had collected a thick coating of dust upon its frosted pages, to the night robes slung over the back of the chair and the ladder left leaned against the right wall of towering bookcases.

Swiftly Faust, with startling abruptness, recalled the times as a boy that he had slept in here – not long after his father’s and brothers’ departures to subdue the conflicts in Hyrule – cocooned in a nest of his favourite guilty-pleasure fairytales, waiting for his family to reunite. One of the blankets his mother had embroidered for him, with the blazing emblem of a mythical dragon, was still crumpled under his father’s desk next to a pile of the worn hardbacks.

The memories hit him with the blunt force of a warhammer to the gut and all the poison of a rattlesnake’s lethal bite.

He felt ill – more than just queasy: too faint to see straight, too weak to keep the strength in his knees. He broke out in a sweat. Paled. Winded. The candle clattered to the floor: extinguished. His stomach turned, burned, and he vomited.

Several, panicked, disorientated heaves later Faust had collapsed.

There was a warmth in the air. Not physical or literal but...a sensation on a different level altogether. He wasn't warm, no: the floor still stung his flesh through its layers with numbing cold. His lips were peeled dry. His back ached with tense discomfort. He wanted to move and crack his joints back into place with satisfying twists but he was too cold and too tired to even face the challenge. Then was it the memories? Their recalled voices? Or the fresh tears gliding down his cheeks?

But then he opened his eyes and realised, with a start, that his Mother's compassionate smile wasn't only in his dreams.

Faust croaked her name and could do nothing to hold back the moisture as it blurred the radiant vision above him. He tried to clear his throat, bite back the burn, pull together those scraps of decency that he labelled pride so he could form at least one of the countless words he'd so long wished to speak to her. Yet it was all gone. In a faltering heartbeat it'd all dropped right out of his head, leaving his thoughts as empty shells aching with the struggle to chase the traces of their contents.

Mother seemed to laugh. He couldn't hear it but he could see it in the gentle crinkle of her eyes. Without words she assured him that he needn't speak, shaking her head just once with a cascading, subtle tousle of long white locks as her fingers brushed across his forehead in a loving caress.

She wasn't real. She couldn't be.

Faust's chest twisted with sickened gravity at the situation, unable to deny the harsh realities of his life - try as he might to stay captured in this wonderfully deceptive hallucination. Grasping at the memories, trying to recall her perfume, the soft tone of her voice, the way her dresses always ruffled when she moved, the chime of her favourite necklace, the doctor fought hard to build illusion upon illusion, patching up the cracks with breathless pain. But he knew now. She was just a figment of his imagination. No Poe could ever radiate such pure and soothing virtue.

She smiled one last time and Faust choked as he watched her fade: light to darkness, warmth to ice, love to loneliness. And for a split second the doctor's eyes flashed about the empty room looking for an instrument to end his own life with, freeing him from this wretched mortal damnation so he could ascend and chase after her. He wanted it - no needed it - he had to be close to her again. It wasn't enough. He didn't get to say anything! He couldn't even feel the warmth of her hand!

Just what sort of inhumane torture was this?!

The doctor was in every state of mind to destroy anything and everything he could touch. A heaving growling howl of frustration ripped up his throat and pounded in his chest, firing his limbs with a sudden and insatiable fury that threatened to tear up him up from the inside out if he gave it no release.

That lantern looked fragile but the desk looked more satisfying to break. Imagine how the chair-legs would shatter when they hit that bookcase. Just envision the glory of havoc pulling down those shelves would unfurl upon the room, pages and pages raining like snow in the shards. He wanted to hear the shrill, piercing song of all things uselessly material dying at his touch. Yet when he moved, jolting up from his bed of hard planks on the floor with an erupting ripple of eager muscle, a blanket slid down off his chest and took with it his breath.

It was same one: the one with the dragon needlework. His favourite as a child.

With a struggle his resolve melted, his temper wilting only further when his eyes flashed in denial towards the place under the desk where he'd seen the blanket pool last. It was gone. Indeed, the one at his feet was the genuine article. But how did it get here? It had been far too many meters away from any sort of grasp he could've made when he fell, and from what he could recall he hadn't moved from where he had collapsed.

But now that I actually look, the floor has been scrubbed clean too. The doctor's stare narrowed with sharp scrutiny. From blissful joy to blissful fury, his heart still pounded in his head, his fists clenched and his limbs shaking still with a rage that refused to die without a fight, but even through all of that the logician within him demanded that he saw sense.

This wasn't a joke any more. There was definitely someone here and Faust was going to hunt them down, no matter what it took.

The shadows fleeted and Faust gave chase, boots battering the floor in a striding storm as here and there and everywhere he blasted open the doors with a firm fist of steel. A fierce, biting sweep of his glare over the room later and he was onto the next, like a hound without smell but aware nonetheless that its prey still lurked within its vicinity.

The noise? Ha. What did that matter? As charitable as the presence had been that didn't mean it wasn't a threat to those that he loved and still lived. He wouldn't put them at risk, not any longer; a sleepless night was better than an eternal one. Who knew what this thing was after? Who knew who the stranger was really? For all he could notice there had been poison in the steak! And there was nothing saying that there wasn't anything far more riddling and deceptive under the surface of it all: a Kingdom full of magic made anything possible. So the hunt continued and Faust's rampant impatience consumed his everything.

Was he being unfair? Was this anything but logical? He wasn't ruling out the possibility that he'd gone slightly mad: admittedly he knew his emotional state. The wisest course of action would've been to consult a friendly face and be soothed by their companionship, not hunt a peculiar visitor that so far had given him no reason at all that could incite such suspicious loathing. He was just venting - he'd exploded - he needed a release. A part of him feared what would happen when Faust finally discovered the stranger; its brother prayed that he never did.

But those thoughts alone weren't enough to stop the doctor. He'd already started the hunt and he would end it, thirsty for some sort of closure and the distraction that it offered him.

Then he was below the floorboards, at the head of the stone cold stairs that descended into the darkness which was the Dragomir mansion's crypt of a basement. The danger of confronting a possibly hostile and unknown presence rang shrill bells of warning in Faust's gut, especially armed with nothing but a lantern, but then he heard a scuttle...something move...too big to be a rat and definitely not a flock of Keese.

Someone was down there. So Faust paused no more.

It was colder down here: how? Was it just his own nerves playing tricks on him? He didn't need to breathe to see the silver mist plume from his lips, nor glance at his hand around the raised lantern to see the goosebump-riddled skin and whitened knuckles. The metal stung inside his tight fist. His heart convulsed in shivering throbs.

The sound was gone. Faust was alone in the darkness. It hurt his ears to hear his breathing. His eyes strained against the surrounding abyss. Cautiously onward, his boots pressed across the slick, hard floor. Where were the walls?

His nostrils flared at the whiff of something putrid and rotten.

Was that Dorian's voice?

No mind. The call was too far away anyway, regardless of whether it was a figment of his imagination or the genuine article of a beloved brother. It sounded desperate: worried, perhaps? Faust tried not to care - or respond. He was too deep already. He had to find his answers.

"You came."

Frederick started howling too. Shit, was he crying?

"I have been waiting but...I was not sure you would actually come. Thank you."

"Why are you here?" Faust growled back. Whether he was simply too terrified to scrutinize his surroundings or was merely exhausted from finding nothing, the doctor resolutely stood his ground, frozen to the spot. He didn't budge a single inch, his sharp eyes fixed on nothing but empty air and the occasional dust particle, come what may.

"Not how?" The boy sounded disappointed. "Or-...who?"

"The only thing I care to know are your intentions."

"Ha." Bitter, sad, it tried to laugh but it sounded instead like a piece of his heart breaking. "I see."

For a long time, many minutes or even hours - who knew - neither of the two spoke another word. Faust's lantern flame dwindled. Then, in a soft but terribly cold breeze it flickered and extinguished: too quick for the Hylian to make out anything of the stranger's approaching face. The only thing he did catch was that it wasn't human.

"Faust, right?"

The voice sounded so innocent it sickened him with an inexplicable fury. "Why?" He hissed through barred teeth. "What is your business here?!"

Did it just whimper?

"My name...is Faye."

Faye? Where had he heard that name before?

"Faye Dragomir."

"Nonsense." Faust scoffed incredulously. "That man is long dead."

"Yes...I know."

A perplexed but brief silence followed before the doctor finally asked, "Then it was you? The one who has been caring for us?"

"You could say that."

"Don't talk to me in riddles!" Faust exploded, startled at his own temper: his whole face flushed with hot blood.

"I-it...It....yes, it was me. But your family helped. They...I...knew them for a short while, but long enough to help you now."

"...How...?"

It didn't reply.

"I asked HOW?!!"

"Faust. I am dead. But...not all of your family... The Evil King does not know mercy. He... They..."

"I swear upon the Goddesses wrath I will tear you asunder if you continue to play games on me, fiend."

"He... Save them, Faust.

They...

They are not...

...all dead...

...help........"

-​

"Where is this p-p-place?"

"I'm...not sure. I want to say a basement but it looks more like a crypt. I-i-is he breathing...?"

"Yeah."

- A Week Later, in Castle Town - ​

"Is the doctor really so stupid as to ignore his own advice? I'm not sure if your patients would approve of a hypocrite."

"We're all hypocrites, Dorian. It's just whether we have the balls to admit it or hide it."

"Ha." The blonde aristocrat tried not to laugh, but despite his best efforts some escaped anyway. "I wonder why I find myself laughing when I know you're not joking."

"Because I'm just so charming."

"Clearly."

They scoffed at each other before Dorian wheeled up beside Faust's bed to get a good nosy at the collection of pictographs still scattered across the thick quilt. The subject was a morbid one: graves. What Faust had discovered underneath the Dragomir mansion was a whole labyrinth of cold stone, each one bearing a unique engraving and the occasional headstone of chilling realism, coated in frost and burdened with icicles. The doctor had been discovered behind a locked a door, collapsed on a frozen puddle with half a skull tightly clawed in his embrace. After some speculation and inspection, it had been agreed upon that the skull couldn't have belonged to anyone any older then seventeen - and that was at a push. That skull had it's own pictograph too.

"I can't believe you're still looking at these." Dorian sighed, exhausted for his brother's vain efforts. "Exactly what are you looking for?"

"I-...I'm not sure."

Sealing his lips, the fragile soul glanced up at the doctor's face to see a frown deeply etched into every crevice. It'd been there for days. "You never did tell me what happened." Dorian pressed, hesitantly. He was almost surprised when Faust replied: his words had been that quiet.

"I have an ancestor called Faye, Faye Dragomir." He tried to explain. When no response came his brow furrowed ever deeper and he scowled with frustration. "He-... fuck. Maybe I'm just mad."

"Get some sleep." Dorian insisted after a thoughtful pause, pressing a delicate hand against Faust's bandaged, frostbitten flesh. "The servants tell me you've only been getting a few hours every night: and sometimes none at all."

"It's difficult to sleep." He admitted.

"I...I know."

He squeezed his hand harder in comfort, but the doctor brushed it away to gather up the pictographs in a messy, irritated pile. "Can you close the curtains?"

"Sure."

The summertime sunlight was extinguished and Dorian left, steadily wheeling himself out of the bedroom with a soft click of the door behind him. The light may have gone but Faust could still feel its warmth: or was that just from Frederick?

The doctor glanced down at the child cocooned in comfort right next to him. He couldn't resist the urge to gently brush the boy's forehead free of loose locks and smile, melting with sweet relief. He'd been having lucid, repetitive nightmares ever since returning from the mansion and discovering that several of the graves there - marked with his brothers' and father's names - laid empty and open. But maybe...just maybe, now that his little brother was here to share his sleep with, his dreams would be a little gentler.

A lopsided grin peeked through Faust's lips and lazily, exhausted, he shuffled deeper under the blankets and wrapped his arms around the child. Hesitantly at first, he allowed his heavy eyelids to fall shut.

- End - ​