I do not own Hetalia or Frankenstein.
"Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change."
- Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
The forest was quiet. The undergrowth was sparse, made completely of weeds and thorny plants that tore skin and clothes. The trees grew in patches, weak sunlight trickling through the leaves and painting faded patterns on the grass. There was one particularly wide stream that wound its way through these parts, tempting deer and small animals to its banks with the promise of cool, refreshing water. They would pad their way to the water's edge, delicately sipping from the slow moving stream and paying little heed to their surroundings.
Matthew hated killing them.
It was a necessity, unfortunately. He knew it was unavoidable - he needed the protein, and snapping their necks was really more humane than leaving them to struggle uselessly in a hunter's trap for hours, sometimes gnawing their own legs off in a desperate attempt at freedom.
He had been in the woods for months now, living off the land quite comfortably and wandering where he pleased. It was a quiet, simple kind of life, one that would appear quite ordinary at first glance.
Unfortunately, first glances never did Matthew any good.
He was a monster, to put it bluntly and unimaginatively. Passing seven feet in height, he walked with an unsteady gait - the product of having two legs not quite the same length, having been sewn together from at least four different bodies (Or maybe it was five; he wasn't in the habit of counting the seams). His skin was an awful yellowish grey color, coarse in some places and smooth in others. The hair on his head was remarkably thick, falling in greasy curls to his chin.
Frankly, he was not much more than a walking compilation of corpses.
Matthew, however, had chosen long ago to be an optimist. He didn't dwell on his origin, or his creator, or even the horrified reactions of the citizens who had witnessed his terrified flight from the tiny Swiss town miles and miles away. No, he focused on what it felt like to be free in the wilderness, not being a bother to anyone, and simply living (even if that life was stolen). He had even given himself a name, one that he had heard near the border of France and taken a liking to.
This false sense of security (and really, Matthew couldn't pretend to be surprised when it ended, only disappointed) evaporated one day when he was stalking a deer near the stream.
The animal was a sweet, young thing, stepping gracefully through the foliage and extending its long neck toward the water. Matthew took a moment to appreciate its beauty (its perfect, natural beauty, something completely foreign to him but also something he had learned to appreciate in other creatures) before cautiously approaching with a large rock. Months and months of practice had allowed him to move soundlessly, even with an uneven tread and ungainly size.
The deer's ear flicked behind it. He held his breath, muscles trembling with the effort to work together and keep still.
The animal resumed drinking for half a second before pausing and raising its head. Matthew remained still, hoping that whatever had caught its ear was nothing.
No such luck.
With another flick of its ears, the deer jumped and darted away.
Annoyed at the loss of his dinner, Matthew nonetheless remained silent, watching to see just what it was that had spooked the deer. His answer soon could be heard in the form of a loud voice, speaking what he had come to know as German.
The voice grew louder, soon accompanied by others, along with the stomping of several pairs of feet and the rattling of a wagon. Why a group of travelers would be ignorant enough to bring a horse and wagon with them through the woods, Matthew couldn't possibly fathom, but he obediently retreated and even took the precaution of starting up a tree. Someone his size was not easy to miss, but he had learned from experience that humans and animals rarely bothered to look up.
The group of people came into view, still talking amongst themselves. It was strange to see so many traveling together at once, but it was clear at once that they were family. A short blond man was walking with two women, one with flowers in her hair and a skirt held well above the ankles and one who was a mere slip of a girl, likely not older than ten years old. Another man was stepping gingerly around the weedy patches, clutching a satchel of papers close to his heart. Matthew smiled in amusement, looking past the man for the source of the loud talking.
He quickly found it behind the wagon.
A large, well built man was walking beside the the horse, every so often coaxing her forward with a pat on the rear or a tug of the reigns. He was constantly interrupted, however, by the last member of the party - and it was this last member that had caught Matthew's attention.
The man was deathly pale, with a shocking mop of white hair despite his youthful face. He took long strides, looking right at home in the middle of the woods despite his polished boots and pressed overcoat. He obviously was suffering some sort of illness, Matthew decided, to have an appearance like that. Something that was lifelong and wore the victim down slowly, though from the looks of the party's clothes, they could afford treatment - they must, because the man did not appear sickly aside from his pallor and strange coloration.
Matthew examined each person carefully in turn, his brain picking out details and piecing them together to see what he could learn. He had always enjoyed that sort of thing; observing from afar and seeing what he could learn and deduce from those observations. He could absorb information and make use of it without consequence, simply putting to use what he saw.
But strangely, his eyes lingered on the pale man far longer than the rest.
As though he felt Matthew's eyes upon him, the man had stopped talking to the other (who sighed in relief) and began looking around, slowing his pace and allowing the cart and the others to pull ahead.
It was all Matthew could do to keep from sighing.
The man's demeanor completely changed in a flash. His steps became precise footfalls that landed without a sound, and his glances were sharp and predatory, mouth falling into a grim line and eyes picking out every detail of his surroundings. Though his gait was slow and his movements relaxed, Matthew could see the same measured strength in his stride that he had seen in mountain lions, in bears. The man was a wolf, a wild animal trained to hunt.
And in that instant, the man, the hunter, looked up, and his eyes somehow found Matthew's.
And in that instant, Matthew was afraid.
The man stopped in his tracks, staring unabashedly at Matthew, an ugly, ungainly creature stuffed between branches high above the ground, a creature made of corpses. Matthew knew he should climb down as fast as he could, kill the man before he could sound an alarm the others, run as fast as he could away from these people, but somehow he couldn't move. He was transfixed by the man's eyes (demon eyes, he thought, as he noticed that they were an unnatural red color, and became even more frightened), and felt as though now he was the deer caught unaware, drinking at the stream.
But the moment passed. The man stared at him for a minute more before cocking his head to the side and making some sort of motion with his hands. Matthew didn't dare move, didn't dare blink, as he watched.
The man waited for some sort of response, and upon receiving none, stared at Matthew for another full minute. Never had Matthew been scrutinized like this, with no visible reaction, not even the slightest twist of disgust and horror on the other's features. All the fear and instinct he had pushed deep down since escaping that place came rushing back as the pale man continued to stare at him.
And then it was over. The man dropped his gaze and fished around underneath his coat. Matthew could only watch in astonishment as he pulled out a stack of parchment and a crude quill, smoothing the parchment over his thigh and carefully writing something.
When he was finished, he placed the paper on the ground with four stones to weight down the corners. He straightened, gave Matthew one more pointed glance (Matthew was trembling at this point and flinched at the sudden return of eye contact), and then strode off in the direction his family had gone.
Matthew didn't dare move for hours. He waited, misshapen ears straining for any sound or hint of the man's turn. Darkness began go fall, and he finally began the descent from the tree, pausing every few seconds to listen carefully. Nothing.
With the remaining light, he moved the stones and picked up the paper with large but gentle hands. The handwriting was large but neat, two straight lines across the page. Matthew could not hope to read it, though he knew from hearing the family earlier that it must be German.
He clutched the paper tightly, utterly unsure of what to do with it but immensely protective of the precious thing. It couldn't possibly hurt to keep it, could it? Suppose one day, despite all odds, he learned to read? To write? It was unthinkable, really, but he couldn't bring himself to extinguish the faint hope that it was possible. After all, the pale man had not shot him with a bow. He had not set fire to his hiding place. He had not called his companions. He had simply acknowledged Matthew's presence as a fellow creature, and even left him a message.
Matthew suddenly felt an inexplicable connection to the man. It was madness, he knew, utter madness, but wasn't it madness that got him here in the first place?
Without much more thought, Matthew carefully folded the parchment, smoothing the creases and taking great care not to crinkle it, and put it in the large pocket of his tattered duster. He took one final look around, one final listen, before crossing the stream and starting off in the direction the pale man and his party had gone.
Curiosity didn't kill the creature.
This is what comes of watching Dark Matters: Twisted but True, reading Crime and Punishment, and having a sudden urge to reread Frankenstein. Ah, well, never fear. I promise to return with another piece of Overdue now that this is out of my system. Really, you're lucky I didn't go farther with the Frankenstein references and make this a pathetic tragedy of a oneshot.
Reviews are lovely little gifts that are always welcome.