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.

Some revelations. No warnings.

Flames will be used to light the fireplace. It is winter, I could use extra heat, especially now at three AM.

I might squeeze a new chapter in tomorrow.

Enjoy! (And, please, review. I know people are reading this, I've seen the stats. Come on, people, I want to know what you think of it!)

Every day he woke up thinking that everything must have been a dream, that he would find himself alone, in the wilderness, hounded by people who did not see beyond his accursed ugliness and every day he opened his eyes and saw the wooden beams of the ceiling of Hippolyte's guestroom and knew that it was real.
The veteran had given him everything he had ever wished for and never thought he would have, friendship, company, acceptance, without questions, without judgement.
His days passed between reading in the sitting room, conversing with Hippolyte and having walks near the cottage with him. He didn't know hunger or cold or fear anymore.
The worst threat of this wonderful new life were the silent glares of madame Marie, the housekeeper, who looked at him as if she half-expected him to do something improper, as shedding his clothes in front of her or eating without washing his hands first.

Hippolyte, his host, was a wonderful person, caring and understanding. He never pressured him to reveal anything about his past and tried to make him feel comfortable in every way.
The first time he had called him "friend", a month into their agreement, he had erupted in tears again, as that first day, and Hippolyte had soothed him again, with infinite patience.
Why did he manage to accept him, that man he had met by chance in the woods and who hadn't had any responsibility towards him , while his own creator had fled from him in terror?

Hippolyte took everything in stride, his lack of a name, his hideousness, his dreadful manners and never belittled him for any of his flaws.
He called him citoyen, which, he had learned, was how people had called each other when they had believed that everybody was equal and as a brother to anyone else.
As if a monster such as him, not born of man or woman but pieced together from corpses, could be as a brother to a virtuous and noble man such as Lagarde!

He had not found the courage to reveal this sort of information to his benefactor even if he was more than halfway convinced that the veteran would not believe him.
Hippolyte was a real rationalist, a son of the Enlightenment, and would dismiss as fantasies his tales of twisted science.
He didn't know what he would feel if that happened, but he was much more concerned about what would happen if Hippolyte believed him. Would he turn away from him in horror? Would he deny their friendship and chase him out?
He felt like he shouldn't withhold the truth from his only friend, but he was too afraid to confess.
The truth was that, despite his protestation of wanting to leave as soon as springtime came, he didn't want to lose what he had.
He wouldn't mind a nomad's life and the hardship that came with freedom, if only he was not alone. If Hippolyte came with him, he would resume his journey tomorrow, but the road lost its appeal, if he had to tread it on his own and even finding his creator and giving him a piece of his mind didn't seem as important as before.
He didn't need a father, now that he had a friend.

It was strange how much Hippolyte had grown used first and fond later of having the stranger around in his house.
Almost every morning, before breakfast, he entered the sitting room and found him curled near the fireplace with a book, looking peaceful and relaxed.
He had gone through half of his library already and, at this pace, he would have to go to town and get more books quite soon.
The conversations they had, on the inherent good of man, on free will and destiny, on nature and god, on the role of women, were magnificent. The stranger seemed to be a natural philosopher and even if some of his conclusions were quite gloomy, he enjoyed discussing with him, be it at home, in the privacy of the sitting room, or walking through the reviving woods.

Hippolyte was amazed at how swift and sure-footed the stranger was, despite his bulk.
He looked perfectly at home in the woods, as if he was a forest spirit given human shape, and could tread silently without making a single twig snap and ran as fast as a deer and, to be sure, he greatly enjoyed running through the woods.
Sometimes, Hippolyte had even joined him, and the stranger had slowed his pace accordingly, to accommodate him and he must admit that it was quite thrilling.

His wound had healed perfectly, hardly leaving a noticeable scar and, now that he was properly fed and cared for, his skin had lost its greyish tinge and was now merely a bloodless chalk white, which was not a terribly great improvement, but was better than nothing.
Until his rather abrupt arrival in his life, Hippolyte had thought that he was content with loneliness, that he didn't need anyone, but, in truth, he had felt lonely and was glad to have found a friend in this stranger.
He rather dreaded the idea that soon it would be spring and his new friend would leave him, maybe to resume a life of torment.

It was in this rather gloomy mood that Hippolyte happened on his friend one morning, in the sitting room, reading a book, as usual, and frowning.
"Good morning, citoyen." he called, trying to sound cheerful. The stranger had not decided on a name yet, maybe hoping that he would pick one for him, which he was not going to do, but calling him citoyen was fine by Hippolyte.
"Good morning, Hippolyte." the stranger replied. With time, his voice had lost his roughness and was now very pleasant on the ears, but Hippolyte could hear he was concerned.
"What is upsetting you so, my friend?" he asked and, as usual, the stranger smiled at his words, as if being called a fiend by him was a special joy.
"It is this book, Rousseau's "Emile". I have been reading it with pleasure, but the last chapter does not agree with me. – he expounded – Why should women be made especially for the pleasure of man and not vice versa, or them both being made for each other's pleasure? And why should women be passive and obedient to men, if they are as human as them? – he asked heatedly – You told me that all humans are equal, with the same rights, so why should males be "more equal" than females?"
Hippolyte sat down next to him and sighed. "No reason, mon ami, except that is more expedient for men that they are so, that they are taught to be submissive and not to think for themselves. One day, humanity will understand that these are stupid superstitions and prejudices as anything else, but I fear that day is still long in coming." he replied wistfully.
"I think I will leave this book unfinished, before the urge to toss it away becomes more intense." the stranger sighed, putting the book down.
"Even I didn't finish it. It made me too upset. Shall we go for a walk, instead?" Hippolyte asked.
"It is still frosted and too dark. Maybe later?" the stranger suggested.
Hippolyte nodded. "Here, - he grabbed Plutarch's Moralia, which had been resting open and face down on the coffee table – read this, it is much more entertaining." he knew that Plutarch's Lives had been the first book his friend had read and that he was quite fond of that old Greek's style.
"No, Hippolyte, I cannot accept it. You are still reading it." the stranger protested.
Hippolyte chuckled. "It would be only the third time I read it, do not worry, I can finish it again later." he explained.
The stranger smiled "If you say so… - he replied – Do you want me to keep the page marked?" he asked, taking the marker out of "Emile".
"Do not worry, that's not where I was actually reading, I just marked my favourite essay, but I can find it again." Hippolite said nonchalantly.
The stranger smiled and flipped the book open at that marker. "De Iside et Osiride. Sounds interesting." he commented.
"It is a mythological telling, rather like a fable. I think you'll like it." Hippolyte said and his friend smiled and set out to read.
Hippolyte stretched and picked up his friend's copy of Paradise Lost, the one that had been in his satchel along with Plutarch's Lives, Werther and a jumble of handwritten notes in German, and began to read.

Some minutes later, Hippolyte became aware of a small sound of distress. He raised his eyes from the book, which apart from some inspired speeches was not much to his taste, and turned to gaze towards his friend.
If he had thought that his complexion looked bloodless normally, then there was no appropriate way of describing it now.
He was so pale that his skin looked almost translucent, his blue eyes were wide in shock and his hands trembled as he held the book.
"My friend, are you alright?" he asked and the stranger seemed to snap out of his shock, only to drop the book, jump to his feet and put as much distance as possible between himself and Hippolyte.
"What is happening?" Hippolyte insisted, concerned.
"That story…" the stranger said in a thin voice, wrapping his arms around his middle as if to keep himself together.
"I am sorry if that upset you, I hadn't thought…" Hippolyte said, trying to get nearer, but he shied away.
"How, how can you bear to touch me, Hippolyte? You have read that, you have seen me, didn't you realize?" he cried, agonized.
"Realize?" he repeated, uncomprehending.
The stranger shook his head frantically and slid to the floor against the wall, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees.
Realization hit him a moment later, the same realization that had made him think of the "De Iside et Osiride" when he had first met the man.
"It looks as if the man had been cut apart and sewn back together… I have absolutely no clue as how he actually survived those wounds…" he had thought, that day.

He kneeled next to his shocked friend and put a hand on his shoulder gently. His friend shied away as if burned, but Hippolyte did not desist.
"Are you trying to tell me that you have died, have been cut apart and have been pieced back together, mon ami?" he asked.
The stranger lifted his head, tears staining his face. "There was no me, before the piecing back together, Hippolyte. – he whispered desperately – My creator assembled me from stolen corpses." he confessed.
Hippolyte didn't want to believe his words, but his friend was too shocked and desperate and hopeless for it to be a morbid fantasy.
There were the scars to prove it, so deep and horrible (he had been right, no one could have survived those wounds), there was the fact that he had no name, no memory going back more than a scant few months and then the scattered notes in his satchel, with their hideous anatomical diagrams and formulas. In some horrible way, everything made sense.

"I am a monster in truth, Hippolyte. I've deceived you and I've let you almost convince me, but I'm no man." his friend sobbed.
Technically, it was true, but did his origins change anything of who his friend was?
Did they make him any less intelligent and sensitive, did they shield him from suffering, did they make him less lonely and in need of companionship?
Did they diminish him in any way?

No, Hippolyte didn't think so.
His friend was not responsible for what had been done to him, he hadn't asked for it, he had had no say in it.
If anything, it did diminish the person who had done that to him and then abandoned him, as an afterthought, as a discarded failure, even if his friend was anything but a failure.
"You're more human than many trueborn men, my friend. – he whispered – And if you have been created from humans, how can you be anything but a human?"
The stranger's eyes now held a desperate intensity as if by looking at him like that he could made him accept what he was, but there was no need.
He had already accepted that there was some huge tragedy in his friend's past a long time ago, now he had only had the confirmation and was a step closer to find who was to blame.

"And since you insist in saying that you are not a man, I have to confess that I'm not a man either. I'm a woman." she confessed, finally relieving himself, or rather herself, from the burden she had carried for the last few months.
Her friend seemed to forgot his desperation for an instant and he stared at her wide-eyed.
"You see, - she said gently – I have deceived you too. I have deceived the world at large for years on end. I was born Virginie and my father had wanted me to be like Emile's bride, but I was too tall to marry, a freak, and I wanted a life of my own, so I fled from home and joined the army and I've been Hippolyte ever since."
"Virginie doesn't suit you at all." he said weakly.
"You're not mad at me?" she asked, smiling.
He shook his head. "No, I'm not. This doesn't change things, does it? You're still my friend, aren't you?" he asked with a pleading look in his eyes.
"Yes, of course. - she said softly – So why should what you told me change things for me?" she asked.
"Do you really think so?" he asked in a whisper.
She nodded. "You are still yourself, no matter where you came from." she said.
"Oh, Hippolyte, you must be an angel, there is no other explanation. If only humans were more like you…" her friend exclaimed, then paused.
"It feels a bit strange to call you Hippolyte, now. Does Marie know?" he asked.
She nodded. "She had resolved the conundrum by calling me just captain Lagarde."
"It would feel awkward, and to call you Virginie would just feel wrong. Can I call you Hippolyta, like the amazon?" he asked.
"That would please me much." she admitted, smiling.
He smiled back, a bit weakly, but she had successfully managed to pull him out of his desperation.

"The scribbled notes in your satchel. Did he write them? Your maker?" Hippolyta asked, moments later.
Everything felt like the oddest dream to him.
First the book, so horrifyingly similar to his own story, then the way he, no she, had taken even that in stride as if it didn't change anything, then her own confession.
His head was spinning madly and he halfway believed that, despite her protestations of the contrary, somehow she would come to her senses later and feel the true horror of his story and then the fable of his human life would end and he would be the monster, alone in the woods, once more.
When she asked him about the notes, he didn't find it in himself to conceal anything anymore from her.
Let her know everything, he thought, wanting to test the depth of her acceptance, wanting to see the moment when it would become too much and she would turn upon him in rage and disgust.

"Yes, they are his. – he confirmed – He wrote them while he was making me. He wanted to conquer death, to understand what made humans human, so he made me as a test, he brought me back with the force of lightning and when I opened my eyes, incapable to talk, barely conscious of myself and in need of help, he fled from me in horror, leaving me alone. - he recounted, shivering at the memory - I fled for the woods and I had to teach myself everything, which berries were edible and which not, how to light a fire, where to shelter for the night. I learned to speak by hearing some people in a cottage, from the woodshed where I hid, and I taught myself to read from some books I had found abandoned. – he continued – I just wanted to be like anything else, but every human I met was afraid of me. I thought I would live alone and die alone, and I was so angry, so angry, Hippolyta. I knew I was on the verge of giving free reign to that rage, of doing something regrettable. I wanted to find my maker and make him suffer as I was suffering, but you saved me, you saved me..." he trailed in a broken voice.
Hippolyta made a small sound in her throat and held him against her, as she had done when he had broken down that first day. "You're not alone anymore, mon ami. We have each other." she whispered and he started crying again, not in agony as before, but in relief.

"Shh, do not cry… - she said soothingly – I will help you. We will find your maker, if you want, and you would be able to tell him that you're still alive, even if he abandoned you, that you have found happiness. And then you'll let me punch him in the face." she concluded.
"Why?" he managed to ask.
"Because he made my friend suffer." she replied simply and he felt something stir in his heart, pure adoration for that person, who had a heart so big and a mind so open as to accept even him, that would fight for him, that called him friend and equal.
He didn't realise it yet, but his love for his friend had started there and then.

See, no slash!