Chapter Text
There is a terrible cracking sound, and for a long, equally terrible moment, Victor is sure some new piece of him has been shattered by the demon—
—but no, no, the beast merely breaks his rifle over its knee as if it were a twig.
What truly awful strength. He doesn't understand; from where is it drawing this frightful power? Victor expected it to be stronger than most men, had selected for it healthy muscle to compliment its larger frame, but this? He built the wretch from mortal men, for God's sake. Young men that were only his to claim because they'd lost their battles, too weak to save their own hides, and yet! And yet, it possesses such power. It is truly a most unholy thing.
The fear, the fury, the pain, and the hot, hot blood filling his mouth spur him to speak; "Kill me! Kill me, now! Do it!"
It spoke of longing, but it cannot fathom the longing inside him, now that he is alone. How he longs to go where his brother has gone. Where Elizabeth has gone. His damnable creation may possess the power of speech, but it will never, can never understand what all it has stolen from him this night. The grief is almost more than he can bear. How could it possibly—it couldn't. It could never understand. It lacks the capacity. It lacks the soul.
It is hard to hear past the rhythmic pounding of his pulse, echoed in spurts, matching beat for beat from the torn skin over his shattered lateral nasal cartilage, but it is impossible to ignore the monster's presence when it moves. To not feel its evil nature pressing down on him as it nears. It nears, then kneels there, behind him. Another moment passes with it silent and Victor is compelled to turn, to look, helpless against his mounting anxiety as the confrontation lengthens. How will his death come? Why does it hesitate, now?
The monster is staring at its hand. At Victor's blood, there, dripping down the length of its fore- and middle finger. Will it tear him to pieces with those hands? The hands Victor chose and carefully assembled both a lifetime and not one full year ago?
"…this is what your will begets, Creator," it says, its flat, black eyes rising to meet his own. "Blood. Suffering." It lifts its hand, indicating the blood, his blood, which it spilled, and yet it levels onto him the blame. And it is nothing to him! This injury is nothing! It is but a single drop of suffering out of all that this devil has wrought this night. A grain of sand easily lost among the length of a shore.
Victor swallows, half feeling he's begun to drown in the blood pooling in his nasal conchae, draining down through his sinuses to coat the back of his throat. Yet more drenches his lips and finds its way past his gritted teeth to slowly fill his mouth.
"…this is not my will," the monster continues. And it dares to sound pitying.
Victor turns and spits, painting the dark fabric layering its palm with vivid red. There. That is what he thinks of it and its horrid will.
A flash of movement and the hand is gone, for it has him again; large, freezing fingers take hold of his hair and wrench him up, up onto trembling knees as it snarls, there, close enough to rip his throat open with its maw of borrowed teeth.
"Do not think I am not tempted, Victor!" There is no heat to its breath, as it bellows its contempt not an inch from his face. Only moisture, and rushing air, expelled to defile his name. "To bleed you. To humble you. You have gifted me such means with which to punish, and not one scrap of love to deter me!"
"Who—could possibly love one such as you?" Victor asks. It matters not what he feels, only that his end is close, and he must have it. He must have it, for there is nothing left for him—nothing but this wretch, and he will not claim it. He will not.
Its thin, black lips tremble around its snarl. It draws breath, and releases him to crumble again at its feet.
"I could lose myself to it," it says, so quiet the words are almost drowned out by the ceaseless drumming of grief and blood and adrenaline beating against Victor's temples, from behind his eyes. What new nonsense is this? Why must it torture him so!
"Kill me!" Victor cries.
"NO!" it roars in return. It takes him by his coat and tugs him up to meet its eyes, again. "You cannot make me!"
Victor snarls and lunges for it, but it catches his wrists and holds them tight enough he can feel the radius and ulna grind together. Again, he cries out, and thrashes, making pointless, flailing attempts to free himself, cheeks burning as fresh tears spill down to dilute the blood sluggishly clotting around nose and mouth.
"Be still," it says. Orders.
"No," Victor hisses in reply. He will struggle, he will fight. He has nothing else!
"I will not kill you," it says, the vice of its hand unmoving no matter how he contorts himself, refusing to let him free. With its other hand it reaches into its sleeve to tear at—by God, are those the same bandages he'd swaddled it in on the damned and storming night of its birth? Filthy and ragged, but still intact enough to bind his hands, it seems. Next, the blackened bandages wrapped around its palm are undone and are added to the first, trapping Victor's hands together in front of him in a mockery of prayer, binding from palms and thumbs, down past his flexor retinaculum, nearly reaching the swell of the flexor carpi radialis, ulnaris and brachioradialis.
"You have denied me death," his horrid creature tells him, "I deny you in kind. You must live, Victor."
He hates the sound of his name in its mouth. Hates it. Had only it died as intended, that he would never suffer the sound again.
"For if you will not grant me a companion, I will take you as one."
This promise, this curse steals what little warmth Victor has left, locking his joints in place even as he is jostled and man handled—and then his mind returns, and he realizes the monster has now situated itself between his legs, and certainty grips him; it means to have him here and now. To make a companion out of him in this cave, this crypt, with Elizabeth not two meters away, oh God, Oh God, no.
"No, no, no," falling from his lips as the rest of his strength drains away, leaving only ice in his veins.
It does not heed him, and why would it? He is little more than its toy, now. A receptacle for its spend. How heartless, how cruel, to demean him, to damn him in this way. It will not murder him in body, but will, with joy, tarnish his spirit with its hellish desires. It will not grant Victor death, but it will tear from him his manhood, his very sense of self, and stain his eternal soul, so even when death is delivered upon him, he will not be granted peace.
The devil pauses in its work, hand gone still over the ankle of his prosthesis. It pushes up his pant leg for further inspection, and the acidic thrill of shame knocks Victor from his horrified stupor.
"Don't—" he hisses, and is ignored, even as he tries to jerk his foot free from its grasp. It holds him, allowing no retreat, and then, simply to shame him further, rips his pant leg up past the knee, revealing the harness keeping the false leg firmly attached.
The unholy thing seems fascinated by its discovery. Yes, what a wonder that he is damaged. Rendered a cripple. What intrigue, indeed. It traces the length of the fine leather wrapping the lower limb, up to the false knee, across the stabilizing bar, to the leather straps and lacing fastening the harness around Victor's stump. Its touch is strange, and wrong, just as it had been when under his power; it feels not with palm but with the tip of its middle finger, the rest of its digits lifted away. The touch seems mocking in its care, its false gentleness.
It stokes the fire of shame in Victor. He funnels that flame quickly into fury.
"My reward," Victor says, venomously, "for attempting to save you from your rightful demise."
"…I…don't un—derstand," it stammers.
And he scoffs. Barks a hoarse laugh that quickly fizzles down to a wet growl from his blood-coated throat. "I went back to save you," he says. "From the fire."
"…fire…"
There it is. There is the vacant, imbecilic countenance Victor truly recognizes. It had perhaps fooled them both, for a time, with its rough-edged mastery of speech, but the dullness of the eyes betray that the performance was less understanding and more mindless recitation. Just a parlor trick. Smoke and mirrors. In truth, the creature he breathed life into is as stupid as any beast. It always has been.
Again, Victor tries to draw his leg away, but the monster snatches it back, pulling it and the rest of him forward by an inch with another inhuman growl. Victor raises his chin in defiance. It is a brute, that's all—and that is all it will ever be. A brutish, beastly wretch, and it can draw him low, and still he will never be as lowly as it. No creation of the Almighty ever could.
Some of that renewed resolve flickers out as it begins unlacing his prosthesis. His hands may be bound, but his fingers remain free and Victor pushes at the creature's fingers with his own, trying in vain to deter it from robbing him of this—this piece of him—of crippling him fully.
It cares not. It is soulless, heartless. It tugs his harness free, and as the cold air hits the knotted, scarred flesh, Victor hears himself sob aloud.
Now. Now is when he realizes he is truly its captive. What hope has he of escape, now? He is hobbled and humbled both. There is no escape.
If only it hated him just a little less, and granted him death instead.
The Creature swearing he will not kill Victor, by the lovely inubaki