Chapter Text
The lands below are cloaked in the heavy thrall of summer, but the Crastle never warms.
That, for all intents, may very well be its one and only flaw. The Crastle is gorgeous, inside and out - so much so that it makes a small petty slice of Ren’s brain ache with envy. It’s a coveted bookmark in Bdubs’ growing catalog of landmarks; some of his very finest work. It shines, through and through, with pure crafted expertise.
But when slipping out of his cold bed in his too-large room, or bracing the wind-shaken shutters in the square-tabled meeting room shut just to maintain the thought of warmth, or pacing the freezing stone floors below, Ren can only think one thing: he didn’t build this place for living.
Because the Crastle is beautiful, it is, but it never, ever warms.
Ren, now, is climbing the (long, steep) staircase to the meeting room, a half-empty crystal glass of fire-resistance clutched tight to his chest like a heating pack. He’s been stocking up on them more and more, not for safety but for comfort: the fire-resistance doesn’t warm him but it numbs him from the cold, replacing it with a faintly-buzzing void of temperature. In comparison to the endless empty chill of the Crastle, it’s bliss.
At the top of the stairs he’s greeted unkindly by a bitter snap of wind, and the corner of his mouth twitches involuntarily into a snarl. The far door has blown open despite its braces, leaving the frozen mountaintop wind to have its way with the interior temperature of the room. A small taunting pile of snow has built up in the doorway.
“Bdubs!” He calls from the meager protection of the stairwell, and is answered by ringing silence. “My Hand!”
Nothing. Ren sighs.
Taking a fortifying sip from his glass, he hauls himself up into the meeting room proper and, placing the crystal cup on the table as he passes it, shoves his weight against the door. He pulls a spare few planks from his inventory to bar it soundly shut again.
“Oh - is that thing blowing open again?” Comes a familiar voice from across the room.
“I’m afraid so, my dude,” Ren sighs, slumping despondently against the now-closed door. Bdubs scurries over to him, inspecting the doorframe with a keen worried eye. Bdubs does that a lot - the scurrying, for one, but more namely the inspecting. His work is seemingly never done where the Crastle is concerned; but for all his expertise, he’s never been able to make the arching gray walls seem friendly.
“Maybe we should make it heavier,” Ren says, mostly as a joke. “Inlay some diamonds in it or something.”
“Great idea, my Liege!” Bdubs says eagerly, snapping to attention. “Of course! But - after the meeting.”
“After the meeting,” Ren nods, not bothering to correct him. A few diamonds in a doorframe will hardly make a difference, what with the vault now overflowing as intended. And the busier Bdubs is kept, the less he’s in Ren’s hair.
When the members of the Court have arrived - not without incident, considering that Ren, in his haste, had just blocked up the door they usually fly into the room through (the irony is not lost on him that it takes far more effort to reach the meeting room from the inside of the Crastle than the outside - his legs are still aching from all those stairs) - Ren clears his throat for their attention.
It doesn’t work. He clears his throat again, more loudly.
“Everyone be quiet!” yells Bdubs.
The room falls silent.
“Thank you, my Hand,” says Ren, with dignity. “Now. As your King, I would like to hear a report on what you, my loyal Court, have been doing on my behalf. How - er - how is the effort against the resistance?”
“Oh, oh! Can I go first?” says Scar, raising his hand.
“You may,” Ren tells him.
“I charged Impulse triple for some of my hOtGuY merch the other day,” Scar says proudly. “Which is available in the shopping district, by the way. If any of you want it.”
“Did you restock the calendars yet?” asks Bdubs.
“You’re selling to Impulse?” asks Cleo.
“Not yet, and yes, but only to overcharge him,” says Scar. “Professional business tactics.”
“Did you charge him with diamonds or emeralds?” asks Cleo.
“Diamonds,” says Scar.
“Are you keeping the diamonds?”
“Um,” says Scar.
“Not to interrupt, but are you drinking a fire-resistance potion out of a wine glass?” asks Joe Hills.
“It’s cold in here,” says Ren defensively. “Do you expect me to drink it straight out of the bottle? I’m a dog of class! Geez!” He huffs. “We’re getting off-topic. Has anyone else done anything to combat the - the soup resistance?”
“I took down that nasty sign they left about the royal emeralds,” offers Iskall.
“Wait, what sign?” asks Ren. Bdubs is mouthing something across the table at Iskall that he can’t quite parse.
“I thought that one was from Cleo?” says Scar. Cleo elbows him in the side. “Ow! Hey!”
“My Liege, should we move on to the next order of business?” asks Bdubs cheerfully, clasping his hands together.
Ren takes a long sip of his potion. “Yes, yes. I doth - er. I do decree that we shall move on. Has anyone heard from Doc recently?”
A resounding silence.
Ren’s stomach sinks unpleasantly. “Nobody? Not even you, Scar? He is your neighbor, isn’t he?”
“Nope,” Scar says, shrugging. “Haven’t seen heads of tails of him for… geez, for weeks now? That awful flag is still there, though. I still think we should vote to burn it.”
Ren’s stomach sinks further. By the time the meeting has concluded and his Court has left again, there’s a ball of ice rolling somewhere under his sternum, a writhing, feverish chill that not all the fire-resistance potions left in the Crastle can numb away.
So Doc has been quiet. Doc is quiet, sometimes, yes, wrapped up in his own projects, but never for this long. Never under these circumstances. Doc has been quiet, and Ren, pride be damned, thinks it surely must have something to do with him.
Doc declared independence from him, after all, and if the Goat’s intentions ended there, Ren would almost be offended. Doc never goes small-scale with these things; Ren’s known him long enough to know that, at least.
Ren loves his kingdom; loves the crown Bdubs laid upon him. He does. He loves his subjects. He’s only done his best to do right by them. He loves his wealth and he loves the Crastle; it’s only nature he should want to fill its coffers, see its intended splendor for himself. But Doc has, had, and will always have his own designs.
Ren can find no source to his begrudgement of his old friend. It resides stubbornly in his chest, a nameness, shapeless swell of miserable bitterness.
He relays his incubating suspicion to Bdubs, pacing in front of his throne, a fresh glass of fire-resistance swirling in his hand. His claws click over the hall’s cold, polished tiles, the sound echoing sharply around the lofty space.
Bdubs nods solemnly. “Yes, Doc. Of course, of course. That miscreant is always up to no good. I bet he’s plotting against you right now, in fact. You should really do something about him one of these days. Throw him out or somethin’’.”
Ren makes a noise of discontent, a quiet strangled whine that sticks in the back of his throat. He sips his potion and it doesn’t cut the cold at all. He wishes abruptly that Bdubs would listen to him, which he then thinks was a rather silly thought to have, because Bdubs agrees with almost everything he says, unless Ren tells him not to. Of course Bdubs listens. He just…
He just… Hm. Ren doesn’t quite know. He just listens too much. Except that doesn’t make sense either, really.
The chill from the tile is beginning to hurt Ren’s feet, a soft-burning ache up past his ankles. He mumbles something to Bdubs about going upstairs. Bdubs offers to escort him, but Ren just shakes his head and downs the rest of his glass, leaving it sitting empty on a side-table on his way up.
His bedroom really isn’t much better - the wide-open balcony, while admittedly a lovely view of the slopes below, sucks the warmth from the room day and night, no matter his best efforts otherwise. Ren feels a sudden sharp pang of envy for the soft layered weight of Bdubs’ woven moss-cloak. His own crushed velvet cloak hardly keeps him warm, a false promise of insulation.
Abandoning the pretense of rest, he slips out onto the balcony. The lingering dregs of potion keep the bitter mountaintop snow off his bones. The gentle white haze blurs the spiraling path down the peak into an indistinct smudge - Ren can barely make out the bottom. He sighs heavily, the wind carrying his fogged-over breath away.
Tomorrow he’ll send a beckoning out, he thinks. Any news of Doc, sent directly to the King for a reward. Someone will answer. He’s sure of it. Someone will tell him that Doc is just as well and pointlessly maniacal as ever, tinkering on something-or-other, a farm or mechanism or overhauled lightning-machine. Expanding his empire. Minding his own business. Ren will go back to his kingdom and tend to his duties and never think about it again.
...Or something.
Ren leans over the railing and looks southward, out towards where he knows the Perimeter scrapes the edge of the world. Through the thick drifting sheets of snow he can see nothing at all.
Tomorrow, he thinks, and goes back inside.