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Chapter Text

Frankenstein had in every regard considered himself a god, only to later release that title and replace it with condemner. It was only too late that he could have paused to regard himself as a father. Not to assign greater purpose, nor even to place his greatest accomplishment, his cursed magnum opus, upon a pedestal for worship, but simply to allow him- his own Adam- the simple luxury of being mere human. 

And yet, when the lost son saw the emptied man lying there, still and inanimate, there was no more space left in his vengeful heart for rejoicing. 

The void that now occupied his sworn enemy could only latch onto him, its tendrils wrapped around his throat and now sinking into his stomach. A twisting feeling he’d felt too many times now. How many times had this accursed force of a man forced him to destroy another beautiful creature of nature? A complex soul of twisting miseries that the wretch would never know. A love, now denied. 

The eternal blizzard screaming for its endless desert of ice would find more companionship in the crystalline fractals hiding in its ocean of white; more than would this god forsaken devil. That forsaken god now condemning it to turn the spear made of its misery back upon himself. 

The last tether keeping him connected to the race of man had finally been broken. The spirits that haunted him were growing quieter, replaced by the solemn words of his own conscience. But what was such a conscience to claim the right to? 

The simpler animal was gone- never again to behold the small wonders of life nor to ever find peace among companionship. The paths fate had left for him were quickly being erased, and soon the road he traveled on diverged to two last destinations; on one horizon, lay two dancing fires of the arctic- one breathed by the sky, the other hatched together by his own hand; on the other horizon was only a longer road, bearing no resemblance to any road he'd previously traversed, but still, its details were kept from him by the spectres laughing and hissing at him. 

The revelation had been clear before, but now it was as though the gauzy fog and withered ice had parted, revealing the barren scene for what it was; he was alone. 

And yet, how cruel was the fate for a mere man- an animal built and molded to accommodate others of its kind? For not was he a man? Built from strangers, as is an infant before being gifted the spark of life when held in its parents’ arms. Built of both man and beast, a testament to the end point- the peak- of evolution. Built to overcome nature as a trial, as have countless ancestors died trying. 

His creator had created a perfect human, with spiraling vessels, nerves, and connections more complicated than he had initially considered. Yes, he knew what he had undertaken in its creation, but he did not realize that a perfect man is more than unrotted viscera and angelic disposition. 

Even so, how could it be? How could a super-human be brought up once again to the gracious title of human? 

No, the wretch was no human- not born of the womb, but of madness- but even still it became orphaned. 

Had this not been his fate from the start? To know only the toil and pain that defined a human, but only finding fleeting glimpses of all the small wonders mean to come with the sentence? Doomed only to view it from another’s eyes? 

The creature, despite its attention to the peculiarities of the world, did not realize it was crying out to the corpse of the late Victor Frankenstein until the mariner that had been hosting his creator joined him in the room. 

A hunched man with golden curls, bringing to his mind not only the haunting visage of Henry Clerval, but also of the sketches of angels that had once illustrated his volume of Paradise Lost . Another mockery of nature made to torment the beast. Where he had hoped the last the world would ever know of Frankenstein's angel would be in his own father’s eyes, he would now only remain as a spill of ink. A broken pen or quill that would be spurned and forgotten. 

The man needn’t speak for the wretch to understand his terror. This scene had played out too many times to count, defining all his countenances with this species of man, so how foolish of him to hope that he could find one last moment of conclusion without it. He immediately makes a move towards the open window, now hastily accepting his fate as an entity not deserving of reconciliation, but the man calls upon him to stop. 

He turns slowly towards him, face no longer obscured, taunting him, daring him to gaze upon his features as though it were his only offense. Unsurprisingly, the man flinches, realizing his ill-fitting and un-proportional form. He could not meet its eyes. 

But the wretch was not here for this man. Nay, he came here for the titan, whose liver was not yet entirely reformed, but still he must have his fill. 

Oh, what self-pity, what self-hatred had spilled from him then, speaking neither to the man, nor to Frankenstein, nor even to himself. His throat felt as though something had become lodged within it. Not an unfamiliar feeling, but he wouldn’t let his misery have an undeserving audience. Man had taken enough pleasure in his crude trials; he would not allow this repentant fury to be a vessel for their justice. No, not like this. And yet, as he paused to steady again his throat from collapsing in on itself, the man speaks. 

Some still clawing, gnawing, and foaming beast inside him still wanted to lash out at him, to make him understand, to force him to understand his agonies, but he’d done enough of that. His heart was too big to match his head*, and thus it would be unable to bear another soul anchoring it down. 

But he was right. He had sinned like no other in this world could have. He had turned himself into a devil, daemon, and all the titles that humanity had tormented him with from even back when his innocence did not let him give meaning to the words. 

But how cruel to pin it all upon one lone man? That innocence was burned, chased away, beaten, shot, and left whimpering and cowering at his feet like a long-suffering dog. Perhaps it would be for its and his conscience's best if it put out of its misery. There was no place, no home to give it to where it would not be looked upon as more than a rabid street hound. 

Even so, what was the point of his lamenting? His actions were clear, influenced so heavily by his despair, but still undeserving of remorse. If there ever was a time to atone for what he'd done, it was too late now. 

The creature could look upon the mariner only with contempt. Did he not know his tale? Could he not conceive that his motivations were born of more than petty spite? Or had Victor dismissed his perspective- his words twisted to fit the man's self-pitying narrative? 

Countless times he had tried to fashion himself to match the manner of men, to accustom himself to society, but there was no change he could make to his nature that ease his presence to others. Thus was his curse, and it was by Victor's young and arrogant hand that the cards for his misfortune were dealt. Perhaps, if the man's bouts of obsession and mad dreams of grandeur were refashioned to more accommodate this fallen angel, perhaps the birds could still sing and he could once again fly up to heaven to kiss the face of God. 

“But soon,” he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.”

Our tale deviates here as our creature is sent down one of two paths. 

Chapter Text

With the final grand swirl of his cloaks and furs, he quits the vessel, throwing himself onto the ice below. Walton watches with a grave expression as the lumbering figure walks slowly away. With every second that passed, its great strides put more and more space between it and the vessel. 

He paces the cabin furiously, unable to keep himself from looking out the cabin window every few moments to see how far it had gotten. Its pace was slow and wavering, and Walton had seen enough people cry in his life to know how wailing sobs reverberate through a silhouette. 

The body of Victor Frankenstein lay as still as it had been before the encounter, but somehow- perhaps through his maddened perspective- he seemed to have a sort of halo about him. 

Walton turns again to the window, gazing at that figure, watching it take slow, now more uneven steps, towards the horizon. He didn't need his compass to know that it was north.  

The north… Was that not where he had been going this whole time? Where his whole life had been guiding him? 

The mariner recalls, quite suddenly, why he had come here. He was in search of a discovery, some grand discovery, and to present it to the world and to his Margret with such pride and joy that even if it was to be renowned by no other than his closest companions, he could still hold that lifetime's fulfillment in his chest. 

And what was Victor? His tale was one of wonder, but it did not serve the same fervor as did discovery. There was no tempest to brave nor glory to seek in his cautionary tale. 

Walton again finds himself peering out of the window. 

Time elapsed: one minute, forty seconds; it would not be soon before the creature would be out of view of the vessel. 

A sudden dread coursed down his body, sickening him to his core. He recalls, frantically, a cousin who had spent his last years wasting away to the throws of alcohol and misery. Always, he described there being a pain in his heart that he could never confide in anyone. When the day came where his body was found hanging from a lamppost, it was difficult to be surprised. Robert was only a child at the time, helpless in his lack of understanding. 

He strides over to the window, hands digging into its frame. Why was it here? Its dark coat suited the desert of ice, but how could a mind attuned to bird songs and gentle breezes perish so quietly? Not with any soft mourning, as Victor had when passing quietly in his arms, but instead being snuffed out by his own flames. 

No. No . 

Without thinking, Walton began to climb out of the cabin window, his feet managing to catch on the ropes on the side of the vessel. Panic surged through him, but there was still time.  

Time elapsed: two minutes, eighteen seconds; the creature was still grand against the horizon.  

He heard a shout from above, upon the ship’s deck, with the shouting only continuing by the time his feet hit the ice. The echo of the sudden stress reverberated through his bones, and his body was trembling, but the pounding in his temples did not leave him privy to the regular sensations of man. 

The crew was hollering at him now, and perhaps some had caught sight of the being that fueled his madness. He could perceive none of it, as all he did was scream, “Wait!” 

The creature seemed to stumble in its steps. 

Again he cried out, now some strange primal noise escaping from him rather than proper language. He commands himself to walk forwards, against the icy blasts and uneven terrain. The creature had finally turned to face him. 

“I am not a wayward traveller for you to offer to host,” The creature stated plainly once Walton was again near enough to hear that odd voice. A voice that was simultaneously snarling and reserved. “I am not an object for your pity- I am not a hound to be tamed, and I am not an injured bird for you to nurse to health!” 

“No, perhaps you are not,” Walton huffs out, trying to steady himself as the icy air draws tears from his eyes. “Perhaps. But I fear you may become my albatross if I leave you to become naught but ash and tinder. No- no, I cannot in any remaining ounce of good conscience let a being of such promise render such hope wasted due to self-immolation. Yes, hope. Hope was what drove Adam, was it not? Despair was what drove Satan.” 

The creature’s face twitched. It seemed to shrink into its coats and furs. Despite this, it began to close the distance between the two. “There is no redemption from my sins. There is no benevolent and knowing angel to show me what history will follow me. I am the beast that ran from the son of God, that prodded at him till I escaped into Pandemonium. Still, there is no legion of devils to assist me in my path of destruction- a path that I have resigned to. If I am not welcome in the kingdoms of man, then I will go to the one place where I know no man will haunt me anymore. Return to your ship mariner, lest your crew hold a funeral for two men.” 

By now, the creature was standing right before Walton. A couple more strides and it would again be close enough for him to again make out every patch of grafted skin, of measured stitches, of rolling muscle, and twisted proportion. 

For a moment, every curse- daemon, devil, wretch, beast- was forgotten by Robert’s mind as he beheld the creature for what it was. 

“A miracle.” 

Its eyes narrow in confusion. Walton laughs, still trying to fight off the cold eating away at him. 

“Yes- Yes! The precise word! Oh, Victor- whatever cloud had fogged your mind has dissipated in my view. Don’t you see? You’re a miracle of nature- the same miracle that beholds an infant that screams fresh from the womb, kicking in its mother’s blood. To leave you here would be to leave an orphaned child. No, no, I’ve seen men of far worse crimes carry themselves on with pride. You cannot- I cannot let you die here.” 

The creature grits its teeth together- a harsh motion not made any softer due to its unenviable features. It furrows its brow and clenches its fists. “I do not understand.” 

“Of course, how could you when you’ve been cast off into the repressed memories of your creator, only to resurface to realize all that was ever expected of you was death…” Walton trails off for a moment. 

The creature seemed uncomfortable, realizing the entire ship’s crew’s eyes were on their conversation. 

“Do you know The Divine Comedy ?” 

“What?” The creature looked again to Walton, who was grinning ear to ear. His face, which was bright red moments ago, was now quickly draining of color. “Mariner, you forget your place as man. These fields of rime are not-” 

“Rime, yes, rime… The mariner…” He was beginning to mumble madness. “I can’t leave you here, don’t you understand? I promised- I swore I would kill no albatross.” 

“I am not a bird ,” It growled, “I don’t understand what… what you speak of…” 

Walton had fallen to his knees, unable to numb his senses on dreams alone. The numbness was felt elsewhere, now. 

“Your crew awaits you. Return to your vessel. Turn back and leave this unhallowed ground.” 

The creature begins to turn away, but Walton grabs a hold of its coat. It again looks down at the withering man, whose eyes stared wholly and unobstructed into its own. 

“You are that which all my endeavors have been meandering towards. Please- Victor was thorough and anxious, but I cannot rely on the words of a single man so obsessed with his own torment. Aha, perhaps you both are alike in that way. Please, if nothing else, consider: your funeral pile will await you for ever. Let me have the honor of beholding such a perfect creation in lamp light and against paper and ink before its presence is left lost forever.” 

“You are asking for my tale.” 

“Yes! I am. I feel my body weakening with every spoken word. There is a hearth in the ship. Return with me there, and I will serve as your Virgil.” 

“‘Virgil’?” 

“Will you let me explain?” 

The creature gazes over him, then back over to the ship. Villagers were rough enough, but sailors… 

“They aren’t heartless, and they understand my whims. Please…” It had no name, did it? Four years, had it been, perhaps nearing five? Victor had never been quite clear with the dates. Four years with no name, only titles and curses. Perhaps it was not Walton’s place to give it a name, but he regarded it nonetheless as “Adam.” 

The creature mutters the name, then kneels to match Walton’s quickly deteriorating state. It lifts the man into his arms, grand enough to regard the form of a grown man as a sleeping child, and returns to the vessel. Each stride greater than the last. Each second an inch closer to white death. 

It eased its panic to hear Walton’s ever-so crazed laughter. Perhaps, after hearing his tale for a month, the mariner had taken after its creator’s mannerisms. 

A final whisper came from the man’s mouth before finally succumbing to the cold’s sleep. 

“‘Instead of the cross, the Albatross about my neck was hung. ’” 

~/~

For every day since she received that great, heaping stack of letters- large enough to demand needing an actual package to contain them all in- Margret had spent her afternoons away in the Saville study. Mr. Saville was as understanding as he could be, knowing well how much Mrs. Saville adored- and fretted- over the wild whims of her younger brother. 

Whether it would ease her pacing through the house or not, he handed her the most recent letter of Robert’s. Comparatively, in length it was quaint, and it made a simple promise. 

TO MRS. SAVILLE, ENGLAND

St. Petersburg, Nov. 18th, 17--

By the time this letter reaches you, I will be in the range of Germany, or perhaps Switzerland. There are many possibilities as of now, and I dare not jump to conclusions. I do miss your presence as you do mine, but I assure you I will be by your side before spring. 

I spoke before of the charm of St. Petersburg, and again I feel its call. This time, however, I roam it with a companion. I understand you may be concerned with this sudden turn of events, but I promise he is honest, albeit blunt, and holds true to his words. His company is unlike that of the sailors or madmen I’ve told you tales about. A new world opens itself before me. I could have spent my entire life searching for something to satiate my need for discovery and for kinship, but now, upon the oddest circumstances, I have found both treasures in one. Alas, I must hold my tongue. Unnatural as it may seem for me to do so, I have put myself under this obligation so as to preserve as much amazement in the both of you making each other’s acquaintance. Even so, my writing hand itches to speak more of him, so I will say as thus: it is as though the Mariner and Dante had come to a compromise, for both have found their redemption in truth. 

Beyond him, there are many occurrences I am open to share and talk freely about. 

The letter continued for another two pages. Though mostly musings of the natural beauties he’d come across, it was a relief to see that the events of his prior letter had not left him in bad shape. Even so, Margret would still be having words with him about the subject- particularly concerned how the final page of his manuscript was torn at the bottom, and how the sweeping words he wrote on the back were all crossed out. 

It was while she was still drafting a letter in response- a few days after finishing the manuscript hidden in the delivered stack- and still processing the tale provided to her, that her husband had appeared in the doorway of the study. 

“Edward,” she greeted as she regarded his frenzied demeanor. 

“Walton’s come.” Just as he spoke, the familiar chime of his laugh, mingled with that of her daughter's, echoed from down the hall.

“What- But he said he should be in Switzerland-!” 

“I suppose he couldn’t contain his excitement.” Mr. Saville only laughs back and strides off to rejoin the company. 

“What…?” She shakes off the oddity of the surprise, and takes in the situation for the pleasantness that it was. 

Margaret hastily pats down the unevenness of her dress, ready to present for the guests. 

“Guest” , she scoffed at the label, Only so much as this guest is traveling memorabilia.   

And yet, a guest did wait for her. When she entered the hall, her eyes were first drawn, of course, to the jovial countenance of her brother. And yet, as her eyes followed the weight of the room, her gaze finally met his . 

“Margaret!” 

She turns her attention back to him and greets him with a similar joy. “Robert! You’ve brought a guest. Your “traveling companion,” I presume?” 

“The one and the same.” Walton motions for him to come closer. 

“Tall” was a word that failed her, though the term “looming” did not escape her. His face appeared as though he had been in a terrible accident, and saved from the clenches of death through only the mercy of a well-trained doctor. Margaret was not so daft as to completely disregard the man's appearance, and how it may pertain to Walton's letters. And yet… 

The guest tried to maintain a polite smile, in spite of the way the edges of his mouth curled unevenly. 

“How nice to meet a friend of Robert’s. Sir, as much as I’d like to say I’ve heard a lot about you, I’m afraid Robert had kept you as much of a secret as he could. Which is to say, not much.” She holds out her hand. 

“A sentiment of his that still baffles me, madam,” He responds in French, with a voice that reminded her of the crunching of gravel beneath the wheels of a carriage, “But nevertheless, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Saville.” 

“You've met my husband- Edward- and my eldest- Irene. So, tell me, sir, your own name.” 

Walton interject, “You see, my dear Margaret, he's been playing with the concept, and-” 

“I have many names,” He states quite plainly, releasing Margaret's hand, “But you may call me Adam or Dante. Whichever you deem more befitting my nature.” 

Chapter Text

The moment its feet hit the ice, it finally let the tears stream from its eyes in an unwalled tide. Here, in the fields of rime, it would find its salvation. Perhaps once its ashes met the sea, they would be drifted to warmer waters. Away from the kingdoms of man, away from the desolate cold. Further south, somewhere where birds still warble and all the world’s fauna lived in peace with each other. Where lions lay with lambs, and the innocence of mankind had not yet been tainted by their accursed curiosity. 

No, even there it would have no place. Its existence was one of blasphemy in of itself; built both of man and beast, but unfit for either of their worlds. 

“Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?”

Damn that volume, that which gave it an answer to its life, only to reveal that it was the antagonist in the story of man. Oh, how it hated that man; that creature which could cradle the broken and tend to the innocent, preaching madly about caring for weaker parties, only to have all their philosophies broken the moment a trial is faced upon them. 

What good is a god that forgets its creation? What is the purpose of its toil and efforts if it only leaves its creation to rot? Oh, but it shall not rot; it shall burn greater than any bonfire or hearth. It shall blaze and scream, then collapse in on itself with the might of a dying star. 

Or will it instead die with an unheard whimper- gasping for air as the mockery of life fades from its eyes? What if it was as though being stuffed within that shed again? Crammed between straw and wood, with its only escape from solitude being both inches and centuries out of reach. 

But did it matter? Afterall, it would be only a brief, fleeting flurry of pain before it could find its peace again. Ah, and what poetry would be held within such a death! At last, it would have a triumph over its creator- a pathetic creature that washed away like melting snow. Its death would be more righteous, more meaningful, more true to its spirit. 

The first curious sparks would crawl up its legs, gripping into its figure without any regard for muscle, bone, or tissue. Yes, the fire would feast upon it, for its form was grander, vaster, and held more secrets than any man’s. Prometheus had wasted himself; the fire he had sought to further mankind was now the medium one lone creature would use to end its own sorrow. Alas, his efforts would have been better spent smothering the divine hearth and letting the world accept the darkness. That same fire that had kept it company on black, empty nights would now rid the beast of needing to see this dreadful world. 

The creature was wrong, still, as it tried to reason the irrational. Its death would be unknown, heard only by ice and wind. Oh, but has it ever lived at all? Or, had it merely become one with the liminal- never to find its home among man or beast again? It did more than wander that in-between; traversing its plains and building empires upon the shadows of what-could-be and what-wasn’t. Somehow, despite being built to withstand the harshest of elements, it sought out that very demise. 

Oh, but why could it not join the kingdom of beast? Was the blissful innocence of simpler creatures so beneath it? Or rather, was it too weak to withstand the salivating madness of a predator? The eternal rule of the powerful ruling over lesser beasts persisted, but that was not the type of comfort it seeked. 

Why did it need to be so difficult? It had beheld its own features countless times now, to its own detestment, but why should it weigh upon its soul so much? 

It cursed at its flesh. Again, it gazed upon the foul stitches in its arms. The boils and blemishes adorning its cursed form. It had tried to tear itself open before, but always stopped when the searing pain boiled so hot as to let its brain leak from its ears. It had tried to rid itself of stitches, of staples, of patchwork, and scars. Nights spent being horrified by its own body were always followed by trying to claw it away. Claw marks all over its form could easily be mistaken for an attack by a rabid animal. In a way, such a conclusion was not so far off from the truth. It had gnawed at its hands, both in pangs of hunger and when its rage had no other medium through which to expend itself. It prodded at its vulgarity, trying to understand what motivated its crude form to keep living. It had dug open a wound in its thigh just so it could gaze upon the miracles of life. 

But there were no miracles to behold within this dirty and depraved brute. No, for a miracle was wanted, sought out, and hoped for. All that existed within this parody of flesh was a tangle of curses, devils, and blasphemies. It existed, but only as a paradox of itself. It was alive, it was dead. It opened every pore of itself to love, but it was only hated. It was the symbol of a new era; it was a horseman hearkening Armageddon. It was an animal, it was cruel; it was human, it was miserable. 

It was sick of feeling guilty, or at least of being told to feel guilty, about merely existing. How could it have known what cruelties beheld wretches like itself? Its birth was a stolen, hidden thing. It was hard to recall anything from those first few golden hours- time that should have been spent recuperating at its mother’s breast- but it did recall wonder. Curiosity like nothing else. Every item before it was a new world to explore. It had stumbled from its slab- catheters, electrodes, and bandages falling away with every new step- and reached out, reached out , to the first being it saw. Those first hours of stumbling about that laboratory were wondrous, at the time. Still, it searched for something- its creator- to ease it into the cold November air, but it was not met with gentle cooing, nor even a gentle hand to hold, but instead infanticide . 

Oh, creature! You were never a child! And neither are you a man. 

But then what am I? 

A strain on logic and reason. A chimera of blasphemies. Something that should not have ever existed. 

Oh, so be it then! Why should it care? Why should the woes of man surpass its own misery? If it was meant to be a beast, then it would give that beast a proper fate. It would be both the dragon and the knight. It would be the maiden and the king. It would be Adam, Satan, Eve, and the Son of God. 

Why should it try to redeem itself? Perhaps it wanted to stay this way. Perhaps it was easier to play the part of the monster than that of the tortured poet. 

Curse that Frankenstein, and for him to recreate the phenomenon of empathy out of rigor mortis and putrefied tissue, only to abandon it to a world where that love would never be reciprocated. To create that which seeks to understand the world, only to be tied to a rock and tortured for its natural curiosity. The creature did not understand itself, nor its place in the world, but it seems the feeling was mutual. That was where it would find its salvation; the space where nothing was understood, but everything was feared. 

Curse his dreams of Utopia and his fever fueled by grandeur. The holy fool of natural philosophy had never taken the time to consider the base of a human. 

What kind of mother would run from her child? What kind of creator would spurn its creation before letting it be molded for the better? 

And still, humanity would carry on. Their tapestries, hymns, and epics would hold no mention of the creature. It would be left out. Left behind. Forgotten- nay, worse yet, it would be remembered only as a spiteful wretch that trailed after its father like a lost dog. 

The creature’s tears had run out by now, but the other physiological effects remained- a choking throat, a twisted lip, a running nose, a numb face, a racing heart. No matter, it was used to crying quietly. 

It kept walking, and when it glanced back, the ship was merely a dot on the horizon. 

Oh, what a pathetic sight! The infernal beast of vengeance and lost virtues whimpers and whines like a forgotten hound. 

Time lost meaning in the white hell. Blizzards, born both of ice and melancholy, tormented the creature. 

Why is the understanding of man closed to me? Why are their trials a part of mine when I cannot partake in their celebrations? What was I meant to give up to become human? What was I meant to produce? What torture is seeking the praise of that which scorns you? What hellish torment is it to be known only by your superficials?  

No answer would come. Its conscience remained charred and swollen, the signs of death weighing it down, like blood coagulating at the bottom of a corpse. There was rigor mortis in its perception of the world. Algor mortis reigned in its soul. Putrefaction in its morals, and dependent lividity in its sorrow. Its peace had long since fallen to hypothermia, but perhaps, once upon that pyre, it would again be thawed out to melt in its hands. Yes, how much kinder would that be? How much easier and forgiving it is to become tinder, rather than spend 100 more years in man’s exile. 

How long had it been walking? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Hours?  

No matter; It had found the base for its altar. 

Perhaps, its ashes will be easier to love than its stitches. Oh, it only wished it would have had the chance to reciprocate that love.  

The few chunks of dry wood and kindling it had been hoarding would suffice. In an earnest ceremony, it created its base. A part of it wished a bolt of lightning would strike its meager shrine and bring those passionate flames to life, but as it held out the small box of matches, it realized something. 

Looking around the scene- really looking- it saw nothing. Plains of ice, decorated by rock and the distant visage of clouds were its audience. It was to die alone, as it had lived. No one would drag it away from its pyre, cry out and save him. No one would light the flame for it, cackling as it burned. No one would sneer, sob, wail or stare in understanding apathy. Here, in this wasteland, it had decided to find its salvation. 

The match struck easily, though perhaps too easily. There was a churning feeling in its stomach. Was it even its stomach? There was no guiding hand showing it how to light a fire. No, that it learned on its own. Here, its skills were put to the test. 

The wood should not have caught as easily as they did, but still they burned at its feet. It stared, for long moments before the heat found its nerves, at their little dance. The wood emanated a soft orange glow upon the surrounding snow, and already its bark peeled away. Immediately, a memory floods its senses. 

“One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it.  In my joy, I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects!”

Should it laugh? Or should it cry? It would not matter, as there was no audience to witness it. Those dancing flames hissed and fluttered, baring their teeth and trying to hide away in the cold wind. Just as it thought that the fire would go out, it finally caught to its dry, leathery skin. 

Within an instant, the creature became its own kindling. There was no slow, dreadful climb as it had anticipated. There was only the flame and itself, the line between the two becoming narrower at an exponential rate. 

Did it scream? Did it cry? Did it laugh? Did it die the moment it struck that match? 

There was the fire and itself. The pyre and itself. The flame and itself. 

There was skin; there was muscle; there was flesh; there was bone; there was sinew. 

Was this the heaven it had been searching for? The companionship? Yes, this flame was its bride, was it not? They had been married through viscera rather than a church. They exchanged vows under despair and broken promises rather than a God’s gentle eye. 

There were nerves; there were fingers; there were hairs; there even used to be blood. 

It fell to its knees as whatever tendon, ligament, or connection of fascia had fallen away. 

And yet, somehow, it still had eyes. Beholding itself, flames tearing itself open, it mistook the light of the pyre for the glow of its soul. Did it have a soul? What was a soul? It would never know. 

Why, even now, was knowledge denied to it? Why could it not leave in peace? 

Peace? Where was the peace it was looking for? 

It could not see anymore. The world would never again show it the splendors of nature; nor the glitter of snow when the light hit it just perfectly; nor what a sunset looked like when dappled across clouds; nor the precise markings upon a lark’s feathers. Still, the memory of its birdsong lingered. It would never hear it again. 

It would never feel anything again. 

How could it bear to die without hearing one last melody? Without seeing the moon’s waning face? Without whistling a jagged tune back at a robin? Without feeling cool water against its fingertips? 

How could it bear to die at all? 

It collapses on its side, consciousness waning. It wanted to live. It wanted to love. It wanted to feel its soul pulse with the world around it. It wanted to leave this pyre behind and tell De Lacy he was sorry. He wanted to return to Walton and plead for the mariner to write his tale. 

He wanted to tell Victor that he was sorry, he did not know how to love, but perhaps you can teach me? I may be horrifying and disfigured, but I can feel the hand of solitude, voice of reason, and the longing of intimacy. I cannot teach myself to become an animal, so perhaps you can teach me to become human? 

I could be like a son to you. Or perhaps a dog- whichever is easier. Oh, noble creator, will you teach me to love? 

He wanted to drag himself away from this mistake, leaving it behind as a scar in his memory, but his muscles were charred remains, and his connective tissue was a collapsed bridge. 

For a moment, he could swear he heard the wind. A moment later, he was dead.