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.