Chapter Text
I am a monster. That much has never been debated. It doesn’t much matter which definition of the word you use, or for how long I try to atone for my sins.
I have blood on my hands.
I have killed the innocent.
I cursed my creator and led him to his death, my story told time and again as a cautionary tale to any who dare to follow in the footsteps of Frankenstein.
Yet I, a creature of profane experimentation, a construct horrible and gruesome, persist.
I fully intended to destroy myself, that day in the arctic. I walked for miles, my creator… my father in my arms, his body cold and unmoving. I walked South, back toward the tree line, where I could find enough wood to build a proper pyre.
It wasn’t fair, the fate that I had been allotted, but I had no anger left to feel. I had exacted my vengeance. There wasn’t anything else left to me.
Night fell as I walked, the temperature dropping as the storm ended and the sky cleared. I picked my way across the ice, the night lit by a waxing moon. I was tired. I was hungry and cold, but I kept walking.
Finally, I reached the first few twisted trees, more bushes than anything, their silhouettes judgemental sentinels in the night. I set down my father’s body and began my work.
I finished the pyre just before dawn. My fingers were stiff with the cold, my toes numb, but I lifted my father to the top of the pyre, then pulled out the fire-striker and flint I had taken from his supplies. It took me a few tries, and I dropped the flint at one point, but I finally got the tinder to light.
I stepped back, watching the fire grow, my breath coming out in clouds of mist. I became suddenly aware of the chill of the air as I breathed in, of the rise and fall of my chest. My heart beat had always been slow, but I could feel it solidly in that moment, pounding away with its steady beat.
Just… a moment more. Another couple breaths.
The light of pre-dawn was hanging on the horizon, and I found my gaze drawn to it. A few stray clouds lingered, the still-unseen sun reflecting off of them in a pale orange. As dawn approached, the orange deepened, then changed to a vivid pink. The sky slowly lightened, and the sparse forest slowly came alive with birdsong.
It wasn’t until the crest of the sun was visible along the horizon that I realized just how long I had stood there. My feet were mostly numb with cold, but overall I was surprisingly warm from the blazing pyre nearby. I turned and watched the fire for a long moment, considering…
Maybe.
Maybe there was something left in life for me? I had wrought so much destruction; brought so much sorrow and received nothing but revulsion in my short life. And yet... I wasn't ready for oblivion just yet, despite how thoroughly I may deserve it. I was alive , and while life lingered, hope rekindled itself in my breast.
A moment more, and then I turned away from the fire and started again walking south.
It was several days before I reached any sort of civilization. I barely rested during that time, wishing to at least put physical distance between myself and the remnants of my past.
I had no plan for what I would do when I finally spotted smoke rising from the chimneys of small cottages. I didn't dare approach, but even sitting on a mountain slope above the village was reassuring. There, in the valley below me, was evidence that people existed. That all of existence was not indeed the frozen expanses of the tundra and my own tortured mind.
I made myself a small camp and finally allowed myself to relax. A fire crackled in a circle of stones, cooking some roots I had gathered on my journey. I had little shelter here on the mountainside, but I was used to such exposure, and food and warmth was enough for now.
The sound of bells drifted up from the valley as I finished my meal, coming from the single church in the village. They were a lovely sound, both joyful and melancholy. I sat and listened until they faded, my heart aching with sadness. I had little anger left for the world. I had expended it both on the innocent and the guilty, my hands and what soul I might have forever bloodied by my actions. But the realization of just how hopeless my plight was was finally dawning upon me.
My creator was dead. The only person who held the knowledge and skill to make another like me. Though he had gone back on his promise, at least while he lived there had been some hope. But now… he was dead, and I still lived. Alone.
I cried, there on the mountain slope, asking myself and the void above me why I had chosen to keep living. There were no answers. Finally, exhausted, I slept.
I remained there for several weeks. I built myself a shelter, woven together from the trees and shrubs growing on the mountain slope. The addition of several evergreen branches made a nearly-comfortable bed, and over the days, as I rested and recovered, I found my deep melancholy somewhat lifted. I was still alone, that much hadn’t changed, but the world itself wasn’t entirely cruel.
It reminded me of my first days, alone and unknowing in the forest. Of my first memories where I learned the difference between water and land, tree and bush. The world had been so strange to me, and I had loved learning everything I could about it.
But with learning came understanding. Understanding of how humans viewed me, of my horrifying visage, of my desperate desire to connect but inability to fulfill that desire. And from that understanding had come frustration, then anger and hatred.
And now… I was indeed the monster they thought I was. I was a murderer, life extinguished all too easily within my inhuman grip.
I watched the village below with distant interest, stripping the needles off a tree branch absently. People wandered back and forth, going about their lives.
I was inhuman. I was capable of such cruelty as most of them would be unable to conceive.
But… I wanted to live. I wanted to learn more. I wanted to connect with someone , to love someone who loved me back. Even with the frigid layers of hatred and despair that coated my heart, I couldn’t help wanting that.
I could be better… couldn't I?
Could I?
I couldn’t undo my sins, but I could try to atone, could try to be better. No more innocent would die by my hands.
Such wretched hands, I thought, looking down at them. They were stained from the needles I was absently stripping, and as yellowed and dry as the rest of my skin. There were cracks on my knuckles where my too-tight skin tore in the dry cold, bits of dried blood marking the cracks. The pain of it didn't bother me. I always ached.
Sighing, I tossed the stick aside and hauled myself to my feet. If I wanted anything to change, I needed to bring it about myself. I needed to approach the village and see what would happen. Even if they simply killed me for existing, it would be better than the interminable loneliness I faced up here.
Maybe it would be for the best if they did destroy me on sight.
Pulling my cloak around myself and lifting the hood to conceal my face, I started down the mountain toward the village.