A/N: This story is written with my personal headcanon that Richard Sonnac once had a brother that he lost (Not to mention he was responsible for said loss.). For those familiar with some other works I've written with this in mind, it's before he finds out certain things.
Richard Sonnac didn't come home that often. As in, truly home. His old family estate.
His excuse was that it was in France, but given the modes of transportation he was privy to, that shouldn't be an issue, really.
In the end, he just couldn't stand being there. At least… not any more.
The place was just too large for a single man. And not just in the practical sense. It was a large mansion in the countryside. Living alone there would drive anyone up the walls.
That was what he told himself, any way.
There was a time he didn't mind living there. A time when the silence wasn't deafening.
All these acres of land and no one in our lineage dug a pool?
I'm not cutting my hair for school, I sure as hell aren't going to do it for a bloody portrait.
What issues with the neighbours? The closest thing we have to neighbours is that family of boars over on the East side.
C'mon, Brother. Just this once let's get out to the city. You're gonna love Paris.
Henry. His younger brother. He remembered living here with him for a large amount of their youth and even a fair portion of their adult lives.
But that didn't last. How could it? Their family history was peppered with tragedy and loss, mostly by their own hands. Richard Sonnac so often wished he was the exception to this.
But he wasn't. And this house he once called a home was just… so quiet.
"I'm sorry." He whispered, trying to sound over the silence. It didn't work. "I'm so sorry."