Chapter Text
The Creature/Adam
Adam was cold. God how he hated being so damnably cold all the time. Nothing seemed to assuage the constant chill in his bones, made worse when the sun had set.
The night was unusually clear, still waters disturbed only by the steady motion of the ship as it cleaved its way north, pushed ever onward by the gentle, frigid winds. Stars littered the night sky, like diamonds tossed carelessly across a black velvet canvas. Adam stood at the stern of the large vessel, watching the glittering jewels above. He had the distinct sense that they would tell him their stories, if he were patient enough to hear through the silence. Patience was for those with time to spare, and God knew his time was now infinite thanks to Victor… selfish bastard.
Adam sighed. He had given Victor his forgiveness in the end, but the bitter sting of reality still nettled him. He was, for all intents and purposes, immortal. The gift of death would be denied him, unless there was some trick to it all that he would discover in time. Until then, he was cursed to find purpose and belonging in a world that so easily sought to damn and rebuke him. Not an altogether comforting thought.
He turned away from the sky, promising to lend his ear another night, and made his way back to the stairs that led below deck. The Captain, a Danish retired officer of the royal navy named Anderson, had agreed to let Adam stay on the ship after bearing witness to his and Victors tale. He did, however, insist that he have a name. “Creature” or “Monster” were not dignified ways to introduce oneself, so he needed to settle on something more… human. The old blind man DeLaney had been the only one who came close to naming him, mentioning that he was like Adam, the first man. This seemed to fit, since he too was made, not born. Once so named, Captain Anderson declared him a temporary sailor, to work and earn his keep while aiding the other men on The Horizont.
The sailors had been none too pleased at first, since they had lost six of their men to his rage, however the favor of sailors proved fickle. Once Adam had used his great strength to push the ship from the ice, then perform a number of difficult tasks on board that would have normally taken many men, their wariness lessened. Adam was able to singlehandedly ease their burdens, and thus make their journeys much more leisurely. Games of cards and dice had been brought out almost every day now, and Adam had even been invited to participate. He did not understand the rules, but the men taught him enough to know that the overall practice was one that would take time to master anyway. After a few weeks, a sort of tentative camaraderie had been formed, and Adam felt the crippling weight of loneliness ease a bit.
He ducked his head as he descended below deck. A few hard knocks to the forehead had taught him to be constantly aware of his height on the ship. The first level below was for the main group of sailors, most of whom currently rested in their bunks. Adam continued down the next set of steps to the cargo hold, towards the space where he slept, away from the sailors quarters. There was a small, enclosed holding cell in the back of the cargo area that was once used to sequester troublesome men if needed, now only held various seldom needed supplies. The captain had allowed Adam to claim this space for his own for the time being. It was not overly spacious, but it was generally agreed that when it came time to undress, Adams heavily scarred body would be cause for continued unease with the others, a grim reminder of his otherness. The sailors may have a tenuous acceptance of him now, but to sleep among them in their bunks and display his unnatural make daily would be more than he (and the captain) thought would be wise.
Adam enjoyed the privacy though, lonely as it was. He did not particularly care for the stares he still received otherwise. Entering his small space, he closed the door behind him and shed his bearskin from his shoulders, leaving the heavy cloak draped on a barrel. He sat and stretched out on the cot that was not quite long enough for his tall frame, and closed his eyes. He had been sailing on this ship for almost eight months now, and still had no idea what he should do. Victor had bid him to live, but he had no real purpose, no true destination. He could continue to sail he supposed, but to what end? Eventually he would need to depart the ship, leave the men and go…where?
He sighed deeply and felt the familiar tightness of grief in his scarred throat. Eternity stretched before him, relentless and unyielding. He had nothing to look forward to, save for the periodic docking at ports for supplies, when he could disembark and procure a new book or two. He had so far been able to acquire 12 books total, and had read them all several times. Luckily, tomorrow was the next scheduled port, in the Danish city of Aarhus. It was large enough that he could cover himself fairly well, and pass simply for a tall Dane when he went out in search of his new literary treasures.
Adam rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, the bones popping and settling. He often puzzled at Victors choice of a hanged man’s spine, since the subtle stiffness from that injury never quite seemed to abate. Options must have been limited, but he did wish that Victor had taken into account the manner of the men’s death might affect the final living result.
Closing his eyes and breathing in the musty scent of the makeshift bedroom, Adam did his best to sleep. He never did seem to rest easy, as nightmares often frequented his mind. Flashes of memories from the composite dead men, images of their lives, their deaths. Most of the time, his dreams were not enjoyable. It appeared that flesh held on to traumatic memories more vividly than pleasant ones, and he was frequently the witness of brutal deaths or abuse of some sort. Occasionally though, he was granted the privilege of a nice dream full of children’s laughter, or a faceless woman’s embrace.
The latter often resulted in an originally unfamiliar tension in his lower region upon waking. That had certainly been a confusing, then later very messy morning once he had gathered the mechanics of what that appendage was for. He had later discerned through his reading that this was for making love to a woman, and creating children. Procreation, reproduction, as Victor had said when he denied Adam his companion. Not that he would likely ever have the chance to utilize it properly. That act was for husbands, not monsters.
Tomorrow heralded the opportunity for more books though, and the happy respite from reality they afforded. Sleep or no, Adam rested his unnatural body and let his mind quiet as best he could so the time would pass faster until finally docking at Aarhus.
Eva
Eva was bleeding. Her nose dripped onto the rug, three bright red blots on the threadbare carpet. Her father usually avoided marring her face, but tonight he was exceptionally drunk and careless. She could tell from the throbbing around her eye that she would wake to it blackened and swollen.
Lars Barker stood over her, swaying slightly from the drink he had indulged in. He was a tall, thin man, gangly with a red splotchy face. A leathersmith by trade, Eva was his one and only child. Eva’s mother, Evangaline Dubois, had died when she was 6 years old, the pox, her father had always said. Eva had lately wondered if he hadn’t beat her as well, perhaps to death. She had been beautiful, the neighbors always lamented, an angel that walked among us, radiant and good. Fair skin, long golden hair, eyes a deep sapphire blue. That beauty had drawn dozens of men to her, but Lars had won over her heart somehow. Eva only vaguely remembered a time when her father had seemed like a good, decent man that could have earned her mothers love.
As she had grown, everyone commented how much she looked like her dead maman, the spitting image of Evangaline in every way. With that growing beauty, her father had begun to change. Eva was no longer allowed outside to play with the other children. He became harsh, critical of her every move, accusing her of being a harlot at only 10 when a group of men had looked at her for just a moment too long. Eva hadn’t understood his anger, she had done nothing to invite any attention from the men, and was merely a child walking. It was no fault of hers that boys and men would leer at her, comment on her body and her virtue.
Though many people told her to be grateful for her lovely face, she had so far felt nothing but growing fear at how she was more and more being seen as a commodity, a piece of prime meat, ready to be devoured by hungry wolves. She had noticed that as soon as her breasts began to swell, her fathers eyes had stayed there more often than her face. He would stare, lick his lower lip and sneer that she needed to cover herself more, even when she wore dresses buttoned to her neck.
The first time he hit her was when she began her menses at age 11. She had come to him, tears in her eyes and blood on the linen underclothing, hoping he could help her. Instead, he had slapped her hands away, a frown cutting deep lines in his face. So you are all grown now, is that it? Trying to be a woman then? Fine! Then learn a womans place, and start dinner.
He struck her often now with strips of untreated leather, usually on the back, the legs, or with punches to her sides. Areas that were normally covered by clothing, so that any subsequent bruising would be hidden. He was always angry, seemed to despise any attention that others gave her. He would take that anger out on her, as if she had any control over the matter, and would emphasize that he was HER father, she was HIS daughter, HIS property, and that he alone had the right to lay eyes or hands on her. Lately, the words felt more sinister and possessive in a way no father should mean.
“Get off the floor, look at you! Kneeling like a common whore” Lars spat out, his words slurring. She moved to stand up, and in doing so he noticed the blood still running from her nose. He cursed and snatched a handkerchief from the side table nearby in the living room, shoving it at her face.
“Ach, a right mess we’ve made of that pretty face now, eh?”. We, as if she was a willing participant in this ritual. “Stay inside for a few days.. Wouldn’t want…hic… bloody mess…” Lars mumbled. “Anyways that’s fine. You need to pack anyway.”
Eva froze for a moment before looking sharply at her father. What did he mean by that? She had no knowledge of a trip coming, as Lars had avoided seeing any distant family for a while now.
“Are we going somewhere father?” She asked, her voice thick with the residual blood still in her sinuses.
“Aye, leaving this shithole, that’s where.” Lars took another deep pull from the bottle. “The menfolk here think too highly of themselves… always askin… won’t keep their damn pricks in their trousers soon enough…”
He wasn’t speaking clearly, the drink muddling his words. Eva knew she needed to proceed with caution, as any perceived slight would evoke more punishment.
“Are we… going to visit family?” She asked, tentatively.
He turned bloodshot eyes to her, roving up and down her body. She tried to keep from shuddering, revulsion rising in her throat. He wasn’t looking at her face when he finally muttered a reply
“No…have to keep you safe Eva… You are my darling girl… These men will tear you apart… need to get away from here and… keep you… safe.”
Eva’s confusion must have been evident, because when her father finally looked up into her eyes, they hardened into what looked to be grim resolve.
“Aye, that’s the plan, pretty girl. We are leaving Aarhus. I’m taking work further south.. I’ll make sure these fucks around here will never touch you. You’ll be safe with me… safer as a wife.”
She stood very, very still, cold dread creeping violently up her spine. Her father was drunk, he could not possibly mean what she thought. She swallowed, noticed her fathers eyes immediately go to her throat at the motion, and said “Father, do you mean you have arranged a marriage for me?” She was now twenty after all, high time to be married, but her fathers insinuation was like something rotten settling in her gut.
He grinned.
“You’ll be safe with me, pet…. Safe with me only. You have no idea… what men would do to you…”
He raised his arm and wiped his nose on his stained shirtsleeve, still watching her. After a moment, he slammed the bottle on the table and staggered towards his bedroom in the back of the house. Eva stayed very still until he had fully disappeared, closing the door behind him.
Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, and she very much felt the need to vomit. She turned and rushed into her own room, chest heaving as she shut and barred the door with the small table she used to sketch on. Drawings skittered to the floor as she hurriedly angled the table to hitch under the doorknob. It wouldn’t stop him if he was in a rage, but on nights when he was this drunk, sometimes the simple obstacle was enough to cause him to go back to his own bed.
A sob broke through her, and she sank to the floor. She knew her father watched her, knew he stared at her the way a father should never stare at his own flesh and blood, but he had never done anything other than the beatings. She knew other men had asked about her hand in marriage, as she was seen as beautiful and eligible, even without a dowry. Every time an inquiry was made, her fathers face would be like steel, and he would turn the men away, declaring that none of them were “worthy” of her. Those nights always brought harsh punishment for her, the penance for the crime of being desirable.
She had to leave, she realized, her stomach sinking. She could not stay with her father and end up his bride in some strange town where no one knew the truth of their relationship. She needed to prepare to leave, the sooner the better. Tomorrow night even, since she knew her father would not want to travel with her face injured. Too many prying questions.
Eva looked around her small room. They were not wealthy, most of her belongings either second hand or handmade herself. Virtually nothing of true value, nothing that could help pay for passage out of Aarhus to escape her fathers plans. She would need money, and quickly. Her mind went to the convent just up the road, where her mother had met Lars. The nuns there were always so kind to Eva, and Sister Marie would slip her sweets when she came to Mass. She would smile conspiratorially and wink, making Eva feel like her mother was still trying to care for her through the kindness of the nun.
Tomorrow, she resolved, she would wait until her father left for the tannery in the morning before she stole away to speak to Sister Marie. She could provide guidance, and maybe a solution that was not as extreme as running away. Perhaps she could instead plead sanctuary and live her life as a nun as well. That would certainly be a better alternative than being her own fathers bride.
Tears still streaming down her face, Eva crawled up into her bed, shivering under the cold sheets.
Tomorrow.. tomorrow she would find a way out of this, one way or another.