DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original Frankenstein characters. They belong to Mrs. Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley, to whom I'm grateful for spinning such a compelling tale. The OCs, however, are mine.

Fluffy chapter. No warnings.

Flames will be used to light the fireplace. It is winter, I could use extra heat.

Updates will be erratic, as I've resumed writing my original fiction project(s).

Enjoy!

Hours later, a half-exhausted Lagarde went to check on the stranger.

Since passing out on his horse, the man had not regained consciousness, but his breathing was regular and his heartbeat slow and steady.
The removal of the bullet had gone well, as expected, totally within his experience of field medicine. The wound did not show any signs of infection so far, but as he examined the stranger, he noticed that the rest of his broad but quite thin body was covered in the same heavy scarring as his face, even worse, if possible.

It looked as if the man had been cut apart and sewn back together without much care to aesthetics, the stitches wide and sloppy, leaving ridges and grooves on the man's skin, and he had those scars everywhere: across his chest and abdomen, around his limbs, even around his privates,
The sight was absolutely ghastly and Lagarde shuddered at the idea of the pain the man must have suffered. He had absolutely no clue as how did he actually survive, but maybe the wounds hadn't been very deep.
Lagarde shook his head. The only two things that came into his mind at the sight were torture (but who would be so cruel as to do something like that to a person nowadays?) and, oddly, Plutarch's De Iside et Osiride, which he had been reading lately.

He had become fascinated with Ancient Egypt during the campaign of the Nile, back in the first years of the Empire and he had always tried to learn a bit more.
Egyptology was a burgeoning discipline and Lagarde enjoyed following its first developments.
He had lately acquired a very nice edition of Plutarch's work and gladly immersed himself in the story of passion, intrigue and homicide he depicted.
Lagarde mused that, after the whole debacle, Osiris must have looked quite like the stranger sleeping in his bed, only minus certain essential bits which his guest still retained, mercifully.
Since homicidal long-eared creatures and mystical rituals of resurrection seemed in short supply in these days, the scars on the stranger's skin must have a more mundane origin, one that Lagarde wanted to investigate, if only to see the person or persons who had done that to the poor man hanged or in jail for the rest of their lives.

Yawning, Lagarde rubbed his only eye and left his room, with the intention of catching some sleep in the rarely used guest room and checking on his patient later.
It had been a bloody long day.

When he woke up, he had no clue as to where he was and what had happened to him.
The last thing he remembered was being on the run from those men, the fight, being shot, the pain, being unable to run further, weak and frightened, and then the one-eyed man had stopped his pursuers, saving him.
The man had dismounted from his horse and talked to him, unafraid, as if he was human like everybody else.
He had even touched him, held his hand and supported his weakened form as he pulled them both to the horse, without a hint of disgust.
Between the exhaustion and the disbelief, he had been rendered speechless.
He had been too weak and relieved to hold on to his mistrust of humans and the man's kindness had struck him deep, deeper than the bullet, to his very heart.

Wherever he might be now, he was finally warm and he was lying on his back on something soft and around him was something equally soft and the place smelled clean, like soap and a fireplace.
Groggily, he opened his eyes, gazing up at a beamed ceiling.
He was inside a house, again, but this time no one was chasing him out screaming.
He glanced around, warily.

The room was cosy but sparsely furnished: a wardrobe, a table, a chair, a smaller table with a bowl and the bed and he appeared to be the sole occupant so far, even if there were signs of recent habitation.
A book was resting on a small table beside the bed. Curious, he unwound an arm from the soft fabric that was wrapped around him and picked it up. "Emile, ou De L'Education" was the title.
He was halfway tempted to open it and read a bit, since reading was one of the only pleasures of his wretched life, but he had more pressing concerns, at the moment, like discovering where he was, where the one-eyed man was and where he could find some food.
His stomach rumbled and he admitted to be quite hungry and surely the book would not disappear while he had a look around.

Sighing, he discarded the soft cloth that covered him and swung his legs down from the bed. The floor underneath his feet was cool, smooth wood and the room was warm enough that he didn't feel uncomfortable, unclothed as he was.
He looked around, in search of his rags, but was unable to locate them.
"I'll have to source some new clothes for when I venture outside again." he thought, sighing and hoping that whoever had done away with his clothes had not taken his books as well, and tried to stand up.
His head started spinning again as when he had fallen in the clearing, but he managed to prop himself upright against the wall and soon it passed.
Apart from a slight twinge in his side, where he had been shot, he had no other signs of discomfort.
Comforted by this fact, he set out to explore, walking slowly and using the wall as a support.
He opened the door to the room silently and padded along a slightly cooler hallway, then sighted an open door and poked his head in to see what was in there.

The one-eyed man was sitting on a big, plush chair near the fireplace, reading with concentration.
He took his time watching him with intent, trying to discover what made this strange man so different from the rest of humankind that he could look upon a monster such as him without flinching.
Apart from having only one visible eye (the place where the other had been was covered by a patch), he looked no different from any other man he had ever seen. He was taller than average, even if not as tall as him, his curly red-brown hair bound on the back of his head, his face smooth as a youth's. Nothing in his face or figure suggested any explanation for his behaviour. Maybe the lack of an eye affected his sight enough that he didn't realize how monstrous he was?

"Are you done with staring at me from the door? – the one-eyed man suddenly asked, raising his gaze from the book – Come here, I won't bite you."
He gasped and gripped the doorframe for dear life. The man must have seen him looking at him, but was not discomfited, no, he was entreating him to join him in the same room.
His heart raced in his chest and he felt a deep sense of unease.
Everything he had ever known about humans was being suddenly overturned by his benefactor.
"Do not be childish, come on!" the one-eyed man insisted and he obeyed, warily entering the room, ready to bolt at the least sign of danger.

This time, the one-eyed man had a reaction upon seeing him.
His lone eye widened and his face became red. "I should have left clothes for you." the man commented, averting his gaze and shaking his head.
"T- thank you for your kindness, monsieur, – he replied, nervously, this was the first time he talked normally with someone who could see him – but it's not that cold here. I'm perfectly fine. Do not trouble yourself on my account."
The one-eyed man gave him a puzzled look and shook his head again.
"Well, welcome back to the land of the living, citoyen. You've been out of it for three days, but I have to admit that now you look quite restored. – he said calmly – I am even surprised that you are already up and about, I would have thought you'd need a few more days of rest. Anyway, I'm Hippolyte Lagarde, former captain of the Cuirassiers." the man added, standing up and extending a hand towards him.
Instinctively, he shied away, looking with puzzlement at his hand.
"Nevermind. – the man sighed, letting his hand fall at his side – And what would your name be, citoyen?"
"I do not have a name, monsieur. Nobody bothered to give me one." he answered truthfully, bitterness seeping to tinge his words.
His creator had abandoned him, running away screaming from his hideousness, yet this stranger was speaking to him calmly as if nothing was amiss. Maybe he would be able to give him a name, he wondered.

The man – Hippolyte – frowned, apparently concerned. "How could your parents leave you without a name, citoyen? – he asked with a mixture of disbelief and anger and he started to worry – No, no, I'm not angry with you. – Hippolyte reassured him quickly – But this is barbarous, it is medieval superstition!"
"Please, monsieur, do not be angry on my account. He didn't want me, therefore he didn't name me. But maybe you can name me yourself, if my lack of names so concerns you." he suggested.
"Nonsense, citoyen. You're not a stray puppy to be named by whoever takes it in. – Hippolyte retorted, shaking his head again – If I ever clap my eyes on whomever did that to you…" he menaced, shaking his fist.

He heard someone's footsteps and turned to face a rather elderly woman who was carrying a tray of something that smelled very good.
"I've brought tea and cake, captain…" the woman began cheerfully, but then her gaze fell on him and raked up and down on his form and the woman reddened so much that she looked on the verge of exploding and then she shrieked so loudly that it hurt his ears and ran away as fast as her short legs would allow.
His heart started to pump frantically again and he looked at Hippolyte with fear and concern, then turned to run away. This time everything was working so fine, he thought with regret, but a strong hand closed on his arm and stopped him on his tracks.

"No need to run away, citoyen. No one will harm you. Marie was just a bit shocked. - Hippolyte said calmly and when he looked a question to him he added – You do realize you are very naked, don't you?"
He nodded, uncomprehendingly. "Is that a problem?" he asked.
"Nom de Dieu! – Hippolyte exclaimed and let go of his hand, grabbing a blanket and tossing it to him – Wrap this around your waist, citoyen, and wait here. I'll talk to Marie, try to calm her down and get our tea back."
He did as he was told and was going to tell Hippolyte to extend his apologies to the lady, but the captain had already left the room in a hurry, closing the door behind him.

He sighed and dropped on the plush chair, a bit weary from the turmoil of emotions he had been plunged in. The chair was surprisingly comfortable and, now that he didn't have to concentrate so much on the one-eyed man, he noticed that the room was positively packed with books, housed in wooden pieces of furniture. On the small table next to the chair, rested the book Hippolyte had been reading: Plutarch's Moralia.
He was quite curious about this one, having enjoyed Plutarch's Lives, but he thought it would be rude to pinch it from his host, especially since there were so many other books lying around.
Maybe he could ask him later if he could read it…

He shook his head, angry with himself. There was no point in entertaining hopes for the future: sooner or later Hippolyte would realize that he was a monster and would chase him out, or even try to kill him.
He was a monster and people didn't lend books to monsters.
The best he could hope was to get some clothes and some food and be sent on his lonely way.
Sighing, he went to the book-cupboard and had a look at the titles. He had no idea there were so many books in the world and all of them seemed very interesting and appealing.
After a moment of indecision, he picked up Voltaire's "Contes Philosophiques" and returned to the chair.
He would just have a look at it, while he waited, ready to bolt at the first notice, he told himself, but soon he was too engrossed in the reading to even notice the return of his host.