Chapter Text
The stars glimmer over the vast sheets of the Arctic, like salt thrown over a black table. Walton gazes at the picture out the window; a perfect backdrop for Victor’s words. The two men sit next to each other, Victor reading out loud from a book that they happily discovered they were both fond of.
As beautiful as Victor’s face is at any time, whether despairing or energetic, whether raging or hopeful, there are few time when he looks so alluring as when he is telling a story.
The weeks Walton has spent listening to this strange gentleman’s tragic tale have been the most interesting on the entire voyage. In addition to the expected sympathy and horror, the long nights with Victor in the cabin have stirred up… other feelings. Victor has spoken with such tranquility, such eloquence, such emotion, that Walton cannot help but pay equal attention to the speaker as to the words.
Out of the thousands of dreams he’s had, whether asleep or not, of the wondrous things he could find in the vast unexplored Arctic, Walton never imagined he would find love here. But he has found himself drawn to this sensitive, tragic, intelligent, charismatic, captivating man. Many times Walton has implored Victor to consider a life after this monster is defeated. Many times Walton, with the most sincere and inspiring words he can find, has tried to recall Victor from the darkness that hangs over him. But Walton has never found the words to tell Victor why he cares so deeply.
Walton did not expect to find love in the Arctic, but now he fears he will lose it just as quickly.
He looks up, attention drawn back to the present moment, to the Victor here, now. Victor runs a hand through his messy dark hair as he reads aloud, his eyes brimming with emotion, crossing and uncrossing his legs, leaning over the page. Walton tracks the movement of Victor’s lips.
The ruined man draws a hand over his eyes. “The emotion of this passage always moves me,” he sniffs. “Especially now, when I have fallen so far from hopes of any romance.”
Walton pauses for a second, thinking of something, anything normal and friendly to say. “Yes, it’s a wonderful scene.”
Victor looks up, confused. “My dear Walton, is something occupying your attention? I’m not angry, it’s just that you do not seem entirely present tonight. Are you worried about the mission?”
Walton looks down, then towards the wall, then up, then down again. “No, not about the mission. But-”
He hesitates, unsure of where to go with this. “Well, after you defeat this monster of yours, assuming you don’t die trying, what happens?”
Victor closes the book. “I expect I won’t have very long before the cold, the exhaustion, or some combination of the two, decide for me.”
Walton can’t help but notice how calmly Victor says this alarming prediction, as matter-of-factly as if he was ordering a bowl of soup for dinner.
“Frankenstein, I wish you would at least try to entertain hope. You believe yourself to be a blight on the world; an expired bit of food, a rusty, broken vehicle that has one ride remaining, before being retired forever. But I have found you to observe and name wonders; if you only put your mind to some noble purpose, you could have a rewarding life still.”
Victor smiles sadly. “Walton, I am honored that you want a better future for me, but it simply cannot happen. When that demon of my own creation murdered my beloved Elizabeth and Clerval, he snuffed out Victor Frankenstein as well. Despair is a tremendously heavy weight on my already rather fragile and sickly figure, even without the toils of my long journey in the mix. But I am not distressed; I have left no one alive on Earth to care for me, and the spirits of my dear friends urge me to go.”
Walton sits in silence for a moment, too stunned by the apathy of his friend to form a response. What could he possibly say when Victor has so clearly and completely given up?
Victor stands shakily. “I feel exhausted; I think I’ll retire to bed. Thank you for talking with me, Walton. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Walton lets him go.