"Where has it lead, the glory and the dream?" -Wordsworth
As he knelt at the foot of her grave, he remembered her as he knew her. The kind stranger in a sea of despair, who once called him John Clare. She who had taught him to dance in the dark, and she who by her words had given him the courage to seize a brief glimpse of time with his son. Surely someone as she could not have left him as well, for the last time he had seen her she had said that she was "almost happy". He knelt, and he sobbed. After a what seemed hours, but could equally have been moments, a small hand gripped his shoulder and a woman knelt next to him. She did not offer any words of comfort, but instead let her silence be a comfort to him. Her short hair rustled in the breeze, and when he gathered himself enough to look upon her, she did flinch away from his scarred face and saffron colored eyes.
"Ma'am." He said, eyes downturned, tears streaming down his face.
"Those who loved her most mourn her loss deeply. It's all right to let it out. Vanessa was a good woman." He noticed that she had an American accent, and that her voice was deep and soothing for a woman. "How did you know her?"
"She was a friend when I needed one most, Ma'am."
"It's Doctor, if you feel the need to address me by a title. Otherwise, my name is Florence. Come. Let us away from this place and remember her always as a friend." As she stood, she brushed her coat of debris and looked to the sky. "The night is upon us. Do you mind walking me home? After recent events," she said nodding at Vanessa's grave, "I don't fancy being a single woman alone at night."
"Of course, Doctor."
As they walked, they were silent. She led him into Westminster, she stopped and looked up at him.
"I didn't even ask your name." She raised her eyebrow, expecting an answer to her non question.
"John, Ma'am. John Clare. Some have, in the past, called me Caliban."
"Why, because of this?" She said, placing her hand upon the ghastly scar which marred his face, "In my experience real monsters are beautiful."
As she said this her eyes became haunted and she took up his arm again. They walked farther, both wrestling with their inner demons. Eventually she slowed at a nondescript looking home with a plaque on the front that read her name.
"The entire ground floor is my office, I live upstairs. Join me for a nightcap?" After he stumbled over the words to deny her for a moment, she laid her hand on his cheek to quiet him. "No one cares what an old crone like me is doing with a man in my office at a semi reasonable hour. They all think I'm a follower of Sapphism anyway. Come, let us mourn our friend."
As she lead him into her office he marveled at the bookshelves, having never seen so many books in one place.
"Are all of these on healing?" She have a ghost of a chuckle.
"No, John. Just the few I have on my desk. Actually most of them are a blend of poetry and fiction."
"Do you enjoy poetry, Ma'am-" at her arched eyebrow he stopped, "Ah, that is, Doc... Florence."
"I used to," she replied sadly, "but it seems that as I get older I have no more use for books of poetry announcing love in its many forms, since I don't really know what it is to feel loved by a man. I felt love for Vanessa, but that was love of a different sort altogether I'd warrant. Do you enjoy poetry, John?"
"I do. It is how I learned of the world. After my accident," he gestured to his scarred visage, "I forgot everything, even my own name. Poetry helped me become human again."
"But not entirely human, I'd gather?" He looked at her shocked as she handed him a tumbler of whisky. "I know what a man who is alive looks like. I also know what Dr. Frankenstein has been doing in his laboratory. I don't think any differently of you, you are a byproduct of a young mans dream to be known. That doesn't diminish your worth in my eyes." He sipped the amber liquid carefully, knowing his low tolerance for it, and with his decision made, moved to stand.
"I had best be going now."
"Oh stop that. By looking at you, you don't have a place to lay your head," she gestured with her tumbler to a door on the other side of the office. "There's a bed there with linens on it. I don't want to be alone and you're due for a washing up." She nodded to another door. "There's a guest bath through there, use it. No one need be alone on a day such as this when we have buried our dearest friend." As she turned to walk up the stairs he stared at her, with a confused albeit shocked expression. "Good night, John."
He walked into the small room, more of a closet than an actual bedchamber, and sat on the fresh smelling linens. It struck him then that he had received more kindness from this woman, this Doctor even, than anyone had ever. Even Vincent had needed something of him. All this woman seemed to require was his presence, to not be alone in this mausoleum of a house. After he washed and laid down, he closed his eyes, and for the first time since his unnatural rebirth, he dreamed. He dreamt of sunshine on his face, and her deep laughter in his ear.