Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sun shone through the shuddering tree leaves in brilliant rays, bathing the earth in dancing speckled light. The grass beside the trail, which led to high-end estates, swayed along with it like waves over the ocean. Nature itself was performing for the icy blue eyes that gazed upon it.

The natural waltz had music ringing in pale, pointy ears, as everything else seemed to quiet at the beauty of it all. The young man peering out the window was slight, his scarred expression unfocused as he enjoyed the performance outside. His three sharp teeth hooked on his bottom lip as he mindlessly chewed on it. Tattooed fingers tapped an unknown beat, and hums threatened to squeeze from a narrow throat. It all came instinctively to the musician.

The carriage shook over large stones on the road, knocking the melody off its key entirely and snapping Gale from his musical daydream. He blinked, turning from the window and looking at his uncle—Herr Harlander—who paid him no mind.

The man’s hard gaze was locked outside, as if the foliage held some kind of answer for what had been pinching his brow the entire day. Gale knew not to question what was concerning the arms dealer; the man never did well with pestering on personal matters.

It was all so similar to his own father—even the man’s features. Stern and rigid, with a long, angular face. His jaw was strong and square, cheekbones high, and his nose straight. That expression was always tight and controlled. His white hair swept up dramatically, adding an intensity to him that most could not ignore.

While many things were similar, one fact in particular was different. The man had not given up on him.

Gale cleared his throat, reaching up and adjusting his vest. “Uncle, will you tell me now why you’ve brought me to your estate?” he asked gently, nervous as those pale blue eyes turned to him for the first time the entire ride.

If he hadn’t known it was not true, he would think this man and his father were twins.

That gaze did not linger, returning to its focus on nothing outside the carriage. “A job,” was all he said, simple and clipped, as if Gale was supposed to understand with only two words.

The musician's expression grew flat, rolling his eyes with a shake of his head. “And what kind of job would that be?”

A silence lingered, one that had Gale expecting no answer at all. For a fleeting moment, something in the air tightened, enough to prickle at Gale’s nerves. He had not said anything provoking, but Harlander’s silence had shifted, gone dense and unreadable. He was about to stare out his window again when Harlander spoke up.

“You’ll be helping a surgeon.”

Gale balked at his uncle, eyes going wide at the prospect. Him helping a surgeon, he could hardly believe even the idea of it.

“Helping a surgeon?!” he barked. His uncle whipped his gaze to him, making Gale’s voice snap back to a normal volume. “How could I assist with something like that?”

“He is in need of extra hands. You won’t be performing any surgeries on anyone, rest assured. This is a different endeavor,” his uncle replied, something flashing in his eyes that Gale couldn’t get a read on before they were flicking away from him again, “He’ll explain it when we arrive,” the words cut the conversation cleanly.

Gale wanted to ask more, frowning as he caught sight of the courtyard as they entered. His fingers messed with a button on his vest.

It was not that he was ungrateful. Surely this was an opportunity with his uncle’s compensation for his assistance, but something in his chest felt off. Each step the horses took towards the manor made this feeling sink further and further down into his gut.

The wagon rocked as they came to a stop, and Gale swallowed around his nerves as Harlander stood. He pushed the door open, stepping out to be greeted by a tall, rigidly composed steward at the base of the steps.

“Welcome home, Master Harlander. Dr. Frankenstein is waiting in your study,” he spoke formally, greeting Gale in the same formal manner as he stepped from the carriage.

His uncle did not say much more as they were led to the entrance of the manor. Allowing Gale to take in the weaving ivy that grew haphazardly all across the columns of the building.

He had seen it before, but only when he was much younger and the vines had hardly taken to the building. The grounds now felt utterly too quiet, but that all could be credited to there being no children running around like the last time he had been here.

Even within the estate, everything seemed unfamiliar. It smelled of old paper, smoke and herbs. As they neared their destination something chemical hit his nose that had him grimacing. Clearly his uncle had begun collecting strange, expensive things—some of which Gale didn’t recognize at all.

The study was even more impressive, cluttered with books, strange diagrams, and half-finished notes. A figure stood by the window, silhouetted in the dim light.

“Doctor,” his uncle said, “this is my nephew. Gale Harlander.”

Sigmund Frankenstein jolted alive, as if words alone could reanimate a person like a sleeping doll that had finally been wound up.

"Finally!" he squeaked, whirling around to face his business partner and his now newly appointed assistant.

He was not an especially imposing man. For one to be financed by a man as powerful as Harlander, one would expect Dr. Frankenstein to hold himself with a sort of confidence, much like Harlander himself. But this man was very different than his benefactor.

For one thing, he stood with a slight hunch. His arms bent at the elbows and hands in front of him, fingers always moving, always restless, like they were holding back from doing something, or simply ready for when the chance may arrive. He was a slight man with a build of no significance. It was his face that compelled one to look, though not in awe of handsomeness or cleverness.

He wore dark spectacles, ones that slipped down his nose and seemed to need an adjustment or two. He had eyes that were as incessant as his hands, darting about, seeing with unfocused intent. His face was unshaven, unkempt with a shadow and beginning to sport a few stray hairs.

What stood out most was his hair. Yellow like straw, and just as wild. It stuck up as if he had ran his hands through it again and again, and left it that way, stiff with grease and whatever else. He wore it tucked into a haphazard pigtail at his nape, though it did very little to contain the mussed tresses.

The doctor swallowed thickly and adjusted his loose cravat, tightening it against his throat even as he seemed to stifle himself by doing so.

"Well—now then—yes, we can get to work," he stammered unevenly, still tugging at the blue adornment around his throat as if choking himself was the goal.

He approached the two men with hurried steps that clicked on the polished wooden floor. There was a pause as he stopped before him, peering down at Gale nervously before addressing Harlander.

"Herr Harlander, good to see you. Thank you for the lad, this will be most helpful—yes, most helpful."

He turned his attention back to the shorter of the two, the nephew he had yet to even properly introduce himself to.

"If all is sorted, we ought to get to work. You can handle strong smells, can't you, lad? Well, of course, you ought to, for your uncle to bring you on. This will do, this will do..."

Gale watched the doctor incredulously as he trailed off into a mumble, arching his brow at the man’s peculiar behavior. He was not what Gale had expected a high-end surgeon to behave like; even his appearance suggested everything but a man with his head on straight.

He wanted to turn to his uncle and ask if he was serious, but he knew Harlanders never joked or teased about… whatever this was. It would be an insult if anything, and he would rather avoid upsetting the only man in his family who had given him opportunity. And after the stiff, silent carriage ride here, it was clear enough that this meeting was not one taken lightly.

He cleared his throat, forcing the knot in it down, and chanced a glance at his uncle—whose hard face was cold and revealed nothing—before settling his gaze on the doctor.

“And what exactly is it that we’re doing?” he finally asked. The unease in his stomach, once a faint whisper, was turning into a steady, insistent pulse.

Sigmund twitched, eyes almost spinning in his head before landing on the shorter man.

"Wh-what? What? You mean your uncle didn't tell you?!" he exclaimed, hands going up before he forced them back to his sides. His jaw worked as he stifled more outbursts, inhaling sharply through his nose.

Gale jolted when his uncle’s hand landed on his shoulder. Every muscle went rigid, as though bracing for a blow he didn’t entirely understand. “Let’s sit and discuss,” the older man said, voice gravelly. “Sigmund has much to tell.” His free hand gestured toward a corner of the room arranged for lounging.

Gale could do nothing more than listen, making his way through the study and taking in the displays lining the walls.

Sigmund trailed behind, muttering under his breath.

"Much to tell, indeed. Too much."

When they were situated, Gale was across from his uncle and the doctor, who sat side by side in a strange contrasting tableau.

Plush cushions dipped under the weight of two diametrically opposed men. The jewel toned sofa, with its dizzying patterns, suited neither.

Sigmund was bent over his lap, and he gripped his knees, the veins on his arms standing out on pallid skin thanks to his rolled up sleeves. He looked out of place in such a polished, untouched place. Chairs that rarely held guests and shelves that were dusted and yet never touched made him look all the more unkempt and wrong.

Meanwhile, the ever stoic arms dealer on his left was rigid. If one didn't know by the color in his skin and the flutter of his lashes every now and again, it would have been easy to surmise he was a stuffed corpse.

Dr. Frankenstein, on the other hand, bounced his leg and chewed his lip, never still for even a moment.

"Harlander, really, to not tell the boy a thing—Where do I even begin—" The frazzled physician went on, never truly letting silence take hold.

One sharp glance from his financier seemed to remind the surgeon of his place, and Sigmund audibly gulped.

Gale squinted at the men, leaning back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. He couldn’t comprehend why his uncle would finance a man whose marbles were so clearly misplaced.

"Death, my dear young man, are you familiar with it? By which, I mean, have you met it? Has it touched someone you know, or rather, knew?"

That line of questioning struck the musician in his chest, his lips twitching. He worked to not show anything on his expression, to present as a Harlander always presented, even as thoughts of his mother made his jaw tense and his eyes threaten tears.

It was his instinct to snap back. If his uncle hadn’t been there, he might have. But he kept quiet.

“I am familiar…” he gritted out.

There was no question about it—Sigmund did not hear the terseness in Gale's response, nor did he care. He simply nodded as if that answer was expected, the motion jerky as he moved his hands into his lap and laced his fingers. Even tightly bound like that, those bony digits fidgeted all the same, his thumbs twiddling as he spoke.

"Yes, well, then you know. The pain. But more presently relevant, the confusion."

If one had been paying attention to those hands by now, they would have noticed the scars. They were ones evidently from delicate work that was not done as delicately as it ought to have been—countless thin, light lines that crisscrossed over the doctor's skin. One that was a bit fresher than the rest was bound on his left, and the way he winced as he fidgeted hinted at its recent soreness.

"Where do our souls go? What becomes of our minds, our memories? These are philosophical questions, of course, and I deal in the scientific, the physical."

Gale could hardly follow the man’s ramblings, his expression furrowing further as souls were brought into the picture. It seemed wrong to be questioning such a topic. No man should believe he can find answers about something so fragile and sacred to every individual.

Sigmund grumbled and shook his head, his ramblings dying in his throat as he had to force himself to refocus on what was most pressing to discuss.

"I want to answer those questions with the physical—the real, and tangible. You will help me do so."

Gale’s tongue worried at his sharp tooth as the doctor continued, believing he could mess with something so spiritual. Gale couldn’t bring himself to not believe the man was insane. To be brought into this without so much as an explanation suddenly felt like a betrayal on his uncle's part.

Suddenly the surgeon was on his feet, and he was beckoning Gale to follow him as he rounded the sofa.

"Come here—come, let me show you. It will be easier than to explain."

The armchair creaked beneath Gale as he jolted at Sigmund’s sudden movement.

Gale gave his uncle a pointed look, unafraid of questioning when his own blood would so easily trust him to someone so out of kilter. The older man’s expression barely twitched, jutting his chin out for him to follow. So he did.

Sigmund led the young man and consequently his uncle, over to a large sheet hung over a larger object. A nearby window shone light that cut sharp shadows into the cloth, making it appear far more intimidating than it really was.

Gale had no clue what to anticipate beneath that sheet, nervous to learn more about what Harlander would so desperately invest into.

Sigmund focused on Gale as he pulled the sheet away, knowing that Harlander knew it well—it was his own, after all.

What stood before them was a tall, wooden slab, decorated with dark lines, three dimensional against the grain. They followed the general silhouette of a human body, though the strange pattern hardly filled out an entire person's shadow.

Pale blue eyes widened as they were met with that of which no man would see without ungodly intervention. Despite that alarming fact, Gale’s interest piqued. He stepped closer, reaching out to trace over one of the prominent paths that branched out from the center like a tree's roots.

“What… What is this?” he asked, letting his hand fall away and turning to the other men, “What does it have to do with your outrageous curiosities?”

“Gale,” Harlander snapped, but the stern scolding didn’t affect Gale in the slightest.

Sigmund grinned for the first time. It was wobbly, and irregular, like he was unpracticed and his lips didn't know quite how far they should go. But even so, his pleasure was evident. He was delighted to see Gale inspect instead of recoil, and he waved Harlander off as he scolded his forthright nephew.

"No, let him speak," Sigmund breathed, "I want you to be honest with me, or how else can we work together? I take no offense, anyhow. Yes, outrageous. But possible all the same!"

He stepped forward, his shaky fingers coming to where Gale had left off, tracing a dark, withered line to a node that bulged from the wood.

"This, my dear boy, is the lymphatic system. An entire, perfect preservation of this delicate structure within our own bodies."

“Quite… peculiar,” Gale muttered, picturing such a thing within himself and finding the image inspiring.

It was as if every man was made of an incredible instrument, with strings and frets that held the rhythm of existence within it.

"More than peculiar. A miracle," the doctor replied with an intense grit.

The doctor looked at Gale, eyes sparkling in the light of the setting sun outside. His eyes were strange, the color not quite clear. They could have been blue, or gray or green, or even hazel. They seemed to shift in the warm light of the day, and it was uncanny.

"Have you heard of the Evelyn tables? Your uncle discovered this one, the fifth—never before seen. It's with this that we will uncover the means to defeat death!"

Gale focused on the slab as Sigmund continued. He was no man of science. At least, music was no traditional science, though it was considered one by those who learned it. The art of learning pitches and musical structure, a mathematical marvel not even he understood completely.

A glance was thrown to Harlander at his mention, but it didn’t linger as those two words hit his ear. Defeat death. Clearly the doctor viewed it as something to conquer, something to beat.

Gale reached for his forearm, squeezing at the muscles there with thoughts of his skeletal tattoos running in his head. It was no secret in his family, his fascination with the undead, with the music he sang and the art he surrounded himself with telling. Maybe his uncle had put him up to this with a reason.

Sigmund was nodding emphatically as Gale mused to himself. He could see that the young man was coming around, not only understanding Sigmund's fascination, but sharing it.

“Defeating death…” His brow furrowed and he met Sigmund’s gaze once again. “By what means?”

"By means of stripping away layer by layer of a dead man, we have before us a feat of great care and importance."

Sigmund traced back up the long shriveled thread to the center of the branching structure. There, he jabbed firmly into the thymus gland—perhaps a bit harder than he ought to, his excitement overwhelming him.

That spot's significance was clear as it was pointed out to the musician. Like the head of a banjo, where the strings attached to it resonated. Without it, no music would carry.

"This is the key. Do you understand, boy? We will conquer what has tormented us since the dawn of our existence! Since far beyond your birth into this world as a naive babe!"

The doctor tucked his chin as he looked down at Gale now—that eerie giddiness he had carried since the young man's arrival evaporating. He was suddenly sullen, frighteningly so.

"We will rescue a soul from the after. We will learn all there is to know by the only means possible; speaking with the dead, now undead. I plan to bring a man back to life from his unwanted grave and you are going to help me."

The excitement of it all—the prospect—diminished the tight feeling in Gale’s gut. Something lingered, within the lining of his organs, but it was quiet enough to ignore.

“That sounds like an abomination…” he muttered, grinning at the doctor and allowing his sharp fangs to peek beneath his lips, “How do we start?”

Sigmund suppressed a laugh, that solemn expression breaking to reveal that same strange, eager passion that he wore before.

"We start here," he answered promptly, thumbing the thymus as he stared at it, willing the puzzle that it was to unravel.

"By using this, we can reverse the state of death, decay, and tissue degradation. Regeneration will be rapid, lasting—the thing that I could not achieve before your uncle stepped in. All we need now is a lab, and with the right amount of power... and an access point..."

Harlander nodded, Gale noticing how that tight expression seemed to loosen with the words pouring from Sigmund’s mouth. Like his uncle was hopeful for something he couldn’t fathom. After all, he still had no clue as to why the man was invested in such an endeavor.

Sigmund had trailed off, leaning in to inspect the slab and trace the shapes under his bandaged finger. Something was clicking into place, his eyes large as he was struck with an idea.

"Of course..." he mumbled, before reaching out with his free hand grabbing Gale by the shoulder.

The young man tensed, his gaze snapping back to the doctor with an arching brow. He was curious as to why the doctor thought he could touch him so easily.

Sigmund looked down at the younger man, then back to the slab. In a flash, he had Gale spun around, and he was feeling down his spine to find a particular protrusion of bone between his shoulder blades.

Gale’s instinct screamed for him to resist, but he ignored that when his gaze caught the way his Uncle’s eyes widened. Clearly this was significant.

"I had it all wrong—we enter here... Yes, yes—this will do it!"

Gale felt when those fingers found what they were looking for, pressing harsher as they had on that slab. Pale blue eyes fluttered to the lymphatic system once more, seeing clearly now how it would sit in his own body.

The younger man shrugged Sigmund's hands off him as the contact started to burn with disgust, stepping aside to face the two men.

“What is it?” he hissed, despite his suspicions on what the man discovered.

Sigmund recoiled just as fast, as if just then it occurred to him what he was doing may be presumptuous. He laughed in an awkward, stilted way, wiping his hands down his front as he glanced warily at Harlander.

"My apologies, my boy," he said quickly, clearing his throat as he smiled to himself. He was still reveling, and it took him a beat to even hear Gale's question.

"We'll access it through the back... That will be the most efficient, less in the way, more room to open up and... yes, yes!"

He fisted one hand in his waistcoat, trembling with his triumph.

"We'll start at once!"

Suddenly he was spinning on his heels, shoes clicking on the hardwood as he beelined for the door.

"Location, supplies, subjects to work on—there's too much to do! Too much! I must return to my study!"

He stopped hard at the threshold of the double doors, so much so that his body canted and his hair fell across his shoulder as he turned sharply to face the Harlanders.

"We will meet again! Yes, we will discuss shortly! Have your nephew clear his schedule, Harlander—"

Then he was darting down the hall, his wavering, frantic ramblings still audible as they bounced between polished walls and reverberated back into the open room.

Gale stared at the doors with a grimace, glancing at Harlander and catching the grin on his lips. That expression was so foreign the singer was shocked by it, a scoff leaving his mouth before he had the chance to stop it. His uncle raised his brow at him curiously.

“What is this even about?” Gale demanded, not understanding why his uncle, of all people, was tampering with death, “Why would you want to… take on something like this?”

A heavy sigh came from Harlander, and the weight of it seemed to settle back onto his shoulders. Gale almost regretted asking him anything. “You’ll understand soon enough, nephew… For now, you should get your things in order! I already have ideas for locations.”

The older man walked off, and Gale didn’t feel the need to follow—glad for the space. His eyes flicked back over to the doors, wondering what he had been brought into and just how soon they would begin.