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.

Phew, I managed it. Here you are my dear readers, another chapter for you. That will probably be it until the new year, as per previous AN.

No warnings, except fluffiness. The chapter is centered on the question of choosing a name. Part of it was inspired by the epic adventure that was the choice of the name of one of my colleagues' baby boy (took 6-7 months more or less).
It was bloody hard to write 6 chapters without naming one of the characters but it's finally over. I hope no one would get disappointed with the choice.

There is a bit of gratuitous Latin (which is translated in-text) and a bit of gratuitous French.
Ci-devant was the way the Revolutionaires called the former nobles after titles were abolished in 1792 and ultra stands for ultra-reactionnaire, the most rabid reactionaires after the Restoration in 1815. Finally, conneriemeans bullshit.

There are also two homages, to Shakespeare and to Les Miserables. Let's see who finds them first.

Flames will be used to cook risotto. Yum!

Enjoy!

"I need a name." he suddenly declared, one afternoon as they lounged on the grass after a light packed lunch, in a meadow a couple of hours of walk from the cottage.
Hippolyta put down her book, a translation of Sallustius, and smiled warmly at him.
"That you do." she simply replied.
He sighed and rolled to his front, looking at her with impatience. She just wouldn't get the hint, would she?
"I want a name." he insisted.
Hippolyta frowned. "Then choose one, by all means. – she replied – Honestly, I thought you would have already chosen by now."
He felt like colouring under her stern but not unkind scolding. "I was rather hoping you would give me a name." he replied softly.
Hippolyta shook her head and leaned towards him to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. He didn't even flinch, he had gotten used to her physical proximity and it didn't bother him anymore. He knew she wouldn't harm him.
"You are not a pet to be named by whoever collects it, mon ami. – she explained – You can name a cat or a dog or a horse because you own them, discoverers named the new lands because they took possession of them, but I do not own you and wouldn't want to. You are your own person and, as much as I care for you and want to make you happy, I will not name you. You have to do it yourself, mon ami." she concluded, with an air of benevolent seriousness.

He mulled her words in his head in silence for some moments. "I had not thought about that, – he then admitted – and I think you're right to a certain extent, but parents name their children, don't they?" he asked.
Hippolyta chuckled. "But parents do own their children, mon ami. It's called patriapotestas." she replied.
He looked at her wide eyed and she sensed his curiosity and astonishment and explained it better. "Parents have the legal custody over their children until they reach the majority, that for boys is somewhere around eighteen or twenty-one or even later and for girls… - she made a pause – Well, usually they pass from the potestas of their father to that of their husband, but that's another question. The point is that parents can and must make decisions for their children, such as what to teach them and sometimes even who to marry. Naming them is just one of them and surely babies cannot name themselves, they are not self-aware yet. – she continued – And you must admit that leaving people unnamed until they are old enough to choose would be unpractical." she said smiling and he nodded in agreement.
It would be very confusing and no one would know who a person might be referring to in a conversation.

"But your case is different, mon ami. You are certainly self-aware enough to make this decision for yourself." she concluded, squeezing his shoulder gently.
He nodded. "I must choose carefully then, since nomina sunt consequentia rerum,names have meanings." he said seriously.
"Ah, but what is in a name? A rose would be equally beautiful under any other name. Do not fret overmuch on this, mon ami." she advised, mock-serious and he laughed.
"Would you at least help me choose? – he asked – The only names I know come from books and I'm likely as not to end up calling myself Armodius or Theognides, or something equally bizarre." he joked.
"As long as you like it… – she quipped, laughing - I think that those two rather suit you."
"Please, Hippolyta, be serious. – he entreated, smiling – You're not helping."
"Alright, mon ami, I'll help you. - she conceded – What about Renè?" she proposed.
He shook his head, frowning. "I'd rather not share with Monsieur de Chateaubriand anything more than a common claim to humanity." he protested.
In his thirst for new books, he had got his hands on Renè, a novella from Chateaubriand and, while he rather liked the descriptions of nature, but hated the political implications and the religious-tinted morbidness. He later discovered that Chateaubriand was a reactionary ultra and that cemented his dislike of the writer.

Hippolyta laughed heartily. "I'm afraid I've made a Jacobin out of you, my friend." she commented.
"And I'm grateful towards you for it, my friend." he retorted, grinning.
"What about Emile, then?" she continued.
"Not bad. I'll think on it." he replied, stretching lazily. The sun had hid behind a cloud and it was rather nippy, so he sat up and donned his shirt.
"No, wait, I've found the perfect name for you!" she exclaimed suddenly.
He looked a question to her.
"Gebhard, like Blucher" she said, almost doubling up in laughter.
"Hippolyta! That's awful. Is it even a real name?" he replied, mock-outraged.
She nodded enthusiastically. "It is the name of a Prussian marshall. German names are quite funny, sometimes."
"And why would I want a German name?" he enquired, quirking an eyebrow.
"Well, you're technically German, or, better, Bavarian." she replied gently.
"I do not feel Bavarian at all. I feel French, if that's the same for you." he commented drily.
"Then I guess you are, mon ami. One of the other things you only are free to choose." she pointed out.
He nodded, glad of it. He didn't want to have anything that tied him to the place he was brought to life and, even if it was not likely that anyone would ask him, but he would be proud to tell that he was a citoyen, compatriot of Marat, Danton, Desmoulins and Robespierre.

"In his papers, the Doctor referred to me as 'the Adam of my labours'. Do you think that counts as naming me? – he asked, worried and dejected – I do not want anything of his and surely do not want for him to claim ownership over me. He had his chance of being a father to me and wasted it." he declared, angrily.
"I do not think this counts, mon ami. You're still your own." she reassured him and a weight lifted from his heart.
"You've been reading those papers?" she enquired, a bit worried.
He nodded. "It's very hard, since I have to look up every word in your dictionary, but I'm getting there. – he admitted – Do not worry about me, Hippolyta, I only want to know more about myself and about him. I want to know why." he reassured, seeing her brow crease in worry.
"I guess you have a right to it. - she conceded – But I rather hope you do not let yourself be influenced by any connerie that awful Doctor might have written. Whatever he might have thought, you're human." she reaffirmed, determination shining in her only eye.
He smiled and squeezed her hand gently. "I know, now, and if I ever doubt about it, I'll have you to bolster my conviction."
"That you will." she confirmed, squeezing back.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind picked up its pace across the meadow.
They decided to decamp and return to the cottage, before rain caught up with them, but didn't quite manage it and ran the last ten minutes under a heavy rain, getting to the cottage soaked to the skin.
Marie half-scolded them like wayward children, half fussed over them as if they had just risked death. Muttering about water stains and sodden clothes, she sent them both to their quarters to get changed and dry their hair, then had them seat in front of the blazing fireplace with blankets on their legs and a steaming cup of tea in their hands.
He realized that Marie didn't treat just him as a child, but also Hippolyta, as if she was a grumpy but doting grandmother and that that was her way of caring for them.
"Dear Marie…" he thought, sipping his tea.

"I wonder what the two of you were thinking, not to notice that the storm was closing down on the valley. I noticed from here, my knee was killing me…" Marie commented, bringing more biscuits.
"I apologise, Marie. – he said – It is rather my fault. I asked captain Lagarde to help me choose a name and we got tangled in a discussion."
"Humpf – Marie snorted – Just about time, monsieur. It is rather disturbing to tiptoe around how to call you. – she added gruffly – I rather think you look like a Eustace or maybe a Bertrand." she concluded, setting the teapot down on the coffee table and shuffling back to the kitchen.
Hippolyta fought to keep her face straight and, as soon as Marie was out of hearken, chuckled into her teacup.
"You might as well call yourself Jean-Baptiste or Anne-Louis then, like a ci-devant."she said and he laughed with her.

In the following weeks, it became a sort of a game that involved the entire household. One of them would propose a name and the others would try to find some fault in it, laughing all the way. Marie was the worse in this aspect, finding some witty criticism to make on almost every suggestion.
Marcel reminded her of one of his cousins who was a drunkard, Jeremie of her late husband, who spent all his money playing cards in the local tavern.
Louis was obviously discarded: he didn't want to be mistaken for a royalist, would he? Georges sounded too English, Hubert was too medieval, Jean and Jacques too common and he deserved a special name. Leonide was considered and then discarded as well, because both he and Hippolyta them supported the Athenians rather than the Spartans.
Pericles was shortlisted, instead alongside with Marius, Nicholas, Andrè and Maxime, which was later discarded because it could give rise to put-downs about his large build. Brutus was similarly avoided, even if was the name of a tyrannicide, because it meant "beast" and, really, he couldn't afford the humour.
All in all, choosing a name was revealing itself much more difficult but much more fun than he had thought possible.

"How did you choose your name, Hippolyta?" he asked one day, while the two of them were splitting logs on the back of the cottage. The spring continued cold and rainy and their stash of wood was dwindling.
Hippolyta split another log and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a sleeve. It was a chilly day, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, but both of them were sweating from the exertion even in their shirtsleeves and he didn't dare taking his shirt off so near the cottage, before Marie caught him red-handed.
"I had never liked my name much. Virginie… It was not fitting for me. It makes you think of a delicate and gentle girl, doesn't it? – she asked, heaving her axe again and he nodded – Well, I was six feet tall at fourteen, grew even taller later and, trust me, even in the frilliest pink dress looked nothing like a delicate girl. My feet were too big, my hands too square, my chest too flat. My mother thought my only possibility would have been the convent, but convents had been dismantled, so she was trying to give me over to some old man. No young man in his right mind would have me, she used to say." she continued, splitting another log and bending to grab the pieces and throw them into the woodshed.
"But I stuck it to them all and fled to Paris with the butler's clothes, he was a big man, and enlisted in the Army. – she continued, smirking – I had always thought that I would have been just about right for an Amazon and had started to call myself Hippolyta in my mind, so when the recruitment officer asked me my name, I just gave him the male version of that."
"As I've already told you, - he offered – it suits you much more."
"You'll find one that suits you as well, do not worry." she reassured him, setting down to work again.

He had already tarried long enough, he told himself days later, waking up in the morning.
The process of choosing was fun and nice, but he needed a name now and he needed to make a decision. He rolled off the bed and walked to the washstand, splashing some rather cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to gauge whether he could go another day without shaving or he'd have to go down to the kitchen to heat a pail of water.
Hippolyta had taught him how to shave: even if she didn't have to, because women didn't usually grow beards (even in Marie sported a bit of moustache), but men were supposed to shave, so she had always put on a good show of it.
It had been quite unnerving to have someone manoeuvre a sharp implement so near his face, but he had grasped the concept soon enough and, even if he more often than not ended up with a few nicks, he could now do it on his own, even if it was a hassle.
He had briefly considered growing a beard, to avoid shaving and maybe covering up part of the scar he had on his jaw, but it was too itchy and scratchy and he had desisted after a while.
Fortunately, his beard didn't grow very fast, it almost didn't grow at all, in fact.
He was grateful for not being like some of Hippolyta's old comrades, of which she had told him. Jerome, one of her fellow captains had to shave absolutely every day and his beard started from his cheekbones, making him look like a bear.

He had grown used to his own face, over time. It didn't scare him any more as it used to do in the beginning.
Yes, it was pale and, yes, it was still gaunt and he still had those ugly scars on his jaw and on his forehead, but he looked more human than not and there were people who could look upon him without flinching.
"Marius." he told his reflection, trying to convince himself that this name fit him. It was the same name Hippolyta's colonel, Georges Pontmercy had given to his son, months before Waterloo, and it somewhat felt wrong to share his name with that young child, even if it was a good name.
Did he look like a Pericles, whose namesake was a famous orator, a man of virtue and noble bearing? He didn't think so.
He didn't look like a Nicholas, as well. He rather liked the meaning of the name "victory of the people", it sounded revolutionary without being weird, but it just didn't fit. It was not rational, more like a sensation.
Andrè instead… That was a name he could think of looking at himself every morning. He liked the meaning of it "man", because that was what he was, just a man like any other in his needs and aspirations if unlike any other in every other respect.
Yes, that would be his name, he told himself, leaving the washstand and getting his clothes on.

When he got downstairs, Hippolyta and Marie were huddled in the kitchen, the housekeeper mixing something in a pot, Hippolyta nursing a cup of coffee.
"Took you long enough, monsieur. – Marie muttered as a greeting – The two of you should have gone to bed earlier yesterday night, instead of rambling away in the parlour until the wee hours of the night." she scolded gently and took the pot from the fire for a second, while she poured a cup of milk for him and ushered him to the table.
"Andrè – he said and the housekeeper eyed him suspiciously – You can call me Andrè from now on, if it pleases you, my dear Marie." he repeated, grinning like the schoolboy ha had never been.
Marie snorted, but didn't say anything, turning back to the stove and to her concoctions.
Hippolyta set down her coffee and jumped up from her chair, clapping him enthusiastically across his back. "I knew you would find something that you liked! – she exclaimed – Andrè." she repeated thoughtfully, as if getting accustomed to the sound of it and he thought that it sounded even better when pronounced by someone who cared for him.
"It's perfect. – she approved – Marie, would it be too much to ask you to bake a cake today? I think we need to commemorate."
"I thought he'd never decide - the housekeeper commented drily, surreptitiously wiping the corner of one eye with her apron – Strawberry jam tart will have to do, I'm afraid, otherwise someone will have to go to town to buy supplies ."
"It will be perfect." Andrè said, voice tight with emotion, willing himself not to cry.
It was perfect indeed.