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Chapter Text

It is a wondrous thing to be lost and alone at the edge of the world. Wondrous but lonely. The creature mulls this give and take as he treks towards the sun. His head is tilted towards it, hood pulled over his scalp to shelter from the cold and to hide from metaphorical eyes. It is silly, he knows, to hide yourself when the only thing around you is snow and your own shadow. But he cannot help the muscle memory of curling in on himself. He remembers the dark underbelly of Victor's lab, remembers what it felt like to be chained like a dog and to still cover his scarred body with the dignity a dog should not possess. 

His ragged breathing tears up his throat. The cold, while survivable, is not at all bearable. He has been walking for weeks, maybe months. Time blurs together in a passing sludge. The days are long, his body is weary, yet time passes nonetheless. Whether he'd like it to or not. Whether he'd like to be here to watch it pass. Still, he walks. Towards the sweet heat of sunlight that seems a million miles away. There is nothing to do but walk and think and drown in fuzzy, painful memories. The creature thinks of Elizabeth, of the old man in the barn, of his maker. He has seen many people in his year of life, but those three stick out like shining beacons of knowledge. They have taught him more than any book could. Though Elizabeth and the old man were kind to him, they both ended up in the same position as his maker. All three are proof that life is miserable. That loneliness will continue to prevail over his hope for connection. He read in a book once that good things happen to people. The creature is made of many people.

The creature is no one at all.

"No one."

He speaks the words aloud, the first words he has uttered in many days. "No one. No one. No one." It is easy to repeat. The words- him speaking at all- is a waste of breath, a waste of energy, but he has a lifetime to spare. He could exhale hard enough to burst his lungs, or hold his breath until they shriveled, or slip under the ice until they froze over. It would make no difference. Yet still, he does nothing. Still, he walks. There is no point in wasting time. Not when the sun grows closer with every step he takes. Soon, he will be able to touch it. 

Sixteen more nights pass until ice bleeds into rock. Then rock becomes small tufts of shallow grass. The creature stoops low, hands grazing over the tiny, green patches. Spikes tickle his palms. He sheds his cloak, letting it drag through the grass behind him. Overhead, the sky has turned blue. There is no gray as far as the eye can see; the world has color once more. He walks his way through the meadow, drinking in the colorful bursts of wildflowers in hues he has yet to learn the names of. Trees grow into the sky, stretching towards the sun. He loves the sun. The creature lifts his arms above his head; the world is wondrous. The world is still, oh so lonely. 

Periodically, he will spot a bird diving through the air. Small, chittering critters with bushy, brown tails climb up and down the trees. They do not hide when he walks past them, their large eyes wide with curiosity. They have likely seen men before, but they have never seen a creature such as him. Sometimes, a herd of deer will cross his path, heads bent on large necks. He bows with them, smiling, sometimes laughing as they prod his skin with their antlers and fuzzy, wet noses. 

It is still cold wherever he has ended up. The creature knows he is still "North", but where, what place, he knows not. The man in the barn taught him that people divided land up with invisible lines, and they called the different land by different names. Each place made its own language, each place had its own people. Foolishly, he hopes that if he continues to walk, there will be a land for people like him. A land at the edge of the world where he is not shunned for creation. He knows that this dream is foolish. He read Victor's book, and he knows he is the only one. He will always be the only one.

Victor is gone.

He was foolish to forgive Victor. He knows it was the right thing to do; it did not feel right. After months, after his maker has long since been dead and buried, he finds himself wanting to curse Victor. It was Victor who made him look so, it was Victor who made him feel so, it was Victor who made him alive. 

"I forgive you," the creature says through gritted teeth. If he repeats the words, he finds himself less angry. He reminds himself not to dwell on the past, to work towards the life Victor told him to live. It is hard to live when you are utterly alone. 

The creature continues to walk. 

The change from green to gold is sudden, and the creature stumbles upon this in the dead of night. One moment, he is sure-footed, the next, his boots are sinking into sand. He stumbles, letting out a gasp of confusion before he can correct himself. This is a beach. Lost to his own thoughts, he had drowned out the sound of crashing waves. Now, they are a cacophony of noise. Droplets of salty water spray across his face, the wind brushes his greasy hair from his forehead. It is too dark to see very far out, but he knows that the sea is near. Further down the beach, a ship is bobbing along the top of the water. 

The ship is large, much larger than the one from the Arctic. It is too dark to make out the exact shape of it; the night has transformed it into one black blob. The creature is far from it, but he can hear the people aboard. It is a lively crowd: there is a sharp, beautiful sound he has come to know as music. The people are speaking to the instrument; their voices carry past him. On the top of the ship, there are small balls of light, controlled fires contained in glass jars. He knows these to be lanterns. Once, when he was very young, he spent the night staring out of a hole in the barn door. He watched the fire flicker in a small lantern until it went out. It was his only source of light. 

The people on this ship have many lanterns. They are also very loud. The creature cannot contain his wonder. His mouth is parted in amazement, lantern light flickering in the blacks of his eyes. He can practically feel the warmth all the way where he is. The creature is selfish, he desires the warmth, seeks it out like a moth to a flame. It would not hurt to get a little closer if he stays in the shadows. The people on this ship are high up, they will never notice him.

The creature urges his feet to move from where they have rooted in the golden sand. He trods across the beach with heavy steps. He has only been on a beach once before, when he awoke after his maker's fire. After he drowned. He cannot tell if he likes the beach or not. He knows he does not like the sea. The water is deep and he cannot swim. He has drowned twice, once to wake up alone, the other to wake up beneath the ice. Breaking free to the surface was painful with lungs full of water. He learned that while you can swallow seawater, it is best not to. It felt like a thousand tiny blades had dropped down his throat. 

No matter, his disdain for the sea will not stop him from seeking the warmth. He stands beside the boat, beneath its wide shadow, water lapping at his boots. The people are so very loud. Their lanterns are so very warm and their music is pleasant enough. The creature shuts his eyes, his body sways to the sound in an awkward manner he cannot subside. They are speaking the language he knows, but in heavy tongues he cannot name. It is nice to hear sounds again that are not his own. 

He steps closer to the ship, boots fully submerged beneath the waves. The cold water stings his skin, but he knows the pain will subside. Already, his machine of a heart is pumping in overtime, filling his frozen body with bouts of fresh, hot blood. The creature assumes that this steadfast beating, more frantic than usual, is from the cold and not the closeness of these strange people. 

He runs his hands over the wood of the ship. It is smooth, weathered from storms and rough waves. A thick, black stripe runs along the middle of the side and wraps around the entire boat. The creature touches this part as well, marveling how his fingers slip over the new material. The black stripe is slicker than the wood; he wonders what this stripe might be. 

It is wonder- it always is- that makes him do something so bizarre. In a fit of mind-fogging curiosity, he digs a hand into the tough wood of the ship. Then the other. He propels himself upward, clawing up the side of the ship. He knows he should stay away, knows that humans do not like him. But he has never seen such a strange ship with such strange people. Like a moth to a flame, he scales the side of the ship in a moment. 

Instead of leaping onto the deck amongst the throws of people, he stays lower. He is never quite able to see the ship dwellers. The creature climbs until his hands find an outcrop on the steep wall. A window. He presses against the glass and the round window creaks open. The creature slips through the wide hole. 

The room is dark, and this satisfies him for a moment. He can make out the rough outline of a bed and dresser along the back of the room, and as he moves toward it, he pumps his leg against the sharp corner of a desk. He hisses, not in pain, but at the noise that follows. Papers float to the ground, a jar of ink spills across the dark wood. The creature bends down, scrambling to grab the thin papers in his monster-sized hands. He doesn't mean to crumple them, but it happens anyways, his clawed forefinger tears a letter with little effort. 

In his earlier struggle, he did not realize that the sounds of music and voices had ceased. Now, as footsteps sound outside the wooden door, the creature freezes. A sudden fear roots his feet to the floor. He knows what will happen, knows that he will survive it as he always does. But that does not make it any less unpleasant. Dying is painful; waking up after is a dull side effect. The footsteps draw nearer.

Hide! He thinks to himself.

There are not many places for a creature of his size. He dons his cloak, the hood hanging low over his eyes, and pulls scrap fabric up to his nose. Quickly, he strides across the length of the room and crouches in the corner, hidden beneath shadows. Maybe they will not notice him.

But they walk in with a lantern.

The creature shuts his eyes in frustration; he does not move.

The human shuts the door behind them with a huff. Instantly, their head snaps towards the desk and the crumpled mass of papers. 

"Shite." The voice is low.

The creature curls further in on himself.

The human walks towards the desk, tripping on a feathered pen. They stumble, hands gripping the desk as their foot slides out from under them. Then they do something odd. They laugh. 

The creature is shocked by this display of pure happiness. The human has just returned to a mess of a room, has nearly fallen, yet still they laugh. If they knew that he awaited in the darkness, they would not be so joyous. The creature is intrigued, still, he does not reveal himself.

The human kicks the pen beneath the desk and sets their lantern on the wood. The room is further illuminated. The light nips at the creature's boots and he shifts quietly, returning to the safe darkness. But he cannot move much in his numbing wonder, for the human is a woman. 

Revealed by lantern light, she is smaller than he imagined. Dark, messy hair spills out from under her hat as she sets it on the desk. She looks up, eyes tracking around the room, assessing further damage. Her eyes are brown, but they do not redden in light like his; they reflect golden. Two coins pressed into tan, freckled skin. She does not look like any of the women he has seen before. She is not fair and dressed in the finest emerald gowns. She is wearing brown trousers. There is an animal-like quality to her, something wild. It reminds him of the wolves in the barn but it does not frighten him. Not yet. 

Not until her narrowed eyes reach the corner of the room he occupies. Laughter dies in her throat. 

"Do not hide from me, stranger." Her voice is hoarse, likely from the noises made earlier that he could hear from the beach. 

The creature still does not move. He knows that it is impolite to go against what someone asks, but really, he is doing her a favor. Shielding his monstrous body from her sight. 

The woman sighs. She crouches by the desk, staring in his direction. "I will not kill you, unless you are some British spy, then you might as well throw yourself out of the window for a softer end." 

"I am not," he speaks, unsure of what a spy is, only that he knows he is not one. 

She pauses. "Then there is no need to worry. Reveal yourself."

"You will not like what you see," he answers. His voice is rough, the spaces between words stretching for long pauses until he remembers what comes next. He is very new to language. Speaking is a calculated effort; he grows frustrated when he cannot put what he feels into words. This is why he rarely talks. 

"I'd prefer it to darkness, I am sure."

The creature lets out an annoyed grunt. If this is truly what the naive woman wants, then so be it. He unfolds himself slowly, dragging his spine straight. His layers of clothing make him larger, they hide most of the scars. Still, he is too tall to be human, too awkwardly bent to be fully alive. He keeps his eyes on the wooden floor and waits for the screaming to begin.

"You are quite tall," she describes. Her voice does not shake with fear.

He lifts his eyes and looks at her, chin tilted down to shrink himself further.

"Who are you?"

"No one." 

This makes the thick lines of hair on her forehead knit together. They are called eyebrows, used by the humans to express emotion where it cannot be said. His maker did not gift him any. 

"How did you get here? On my ship, I mean."

"Climbed." He points to the window where cold air is blowing the sheets along her bed. 

The woman begins to move and he shrinks back, waiting for her to attack him, but she does not pay him any mind. She crosses the room and shuts the window with a crack. She presses her nose to the glass and looks down. "You climbed the side of my ship with your hands?"

"Yes."

"Fascinating." The woman turns sharply and leans against the wall, looking him over. "Who have you come here with, stranger?"

The creature shakes his head. "I come alone."

"You venture alone in the far north?"

He nods again. "Always alone."

"Where do you come from?" The woman takes her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down. "Where is your home?"

The creature thinks about the lab he was born in and the basement he lived in for weeks. He thinks of the everlasting darkness and the fire. He thinks about drowning and blinding pain. He has been to many places and yet none have been home. 

"I have no home."

She shakes her head and soft laughter escapes her throat. "You are odd, stranger. Like a shadow, neither here nor there. I don't suppose you could answer any of my questions."

"I will remain peaceful if you simply let me leave." He does not want to leave. The heat from the ship and the soft lulling of waves are enough to make him dreary and tired. What he wants is to sleep on ground that is not grassy, wet, or cold. To have sturdy walls to cradle him. This is an impossible wish. 

"Peaceful?"

He bristles. "I have killed many men but I do not wish to hurt a woman."

Her eyes dance in the lantern light, wolf's eyes. "So have I. I wonder, who is trapped with whom, stranger?"

"Allow me to leave," he commands, voice rising. 

Still, the woman does not back down. "Let us be civil. Can we not sit and speak like normal people?"

The creature snarls. He pulls back his hood and slides the fabric off his face. Frozen skin and stitches reveal themselves to the woman. He stands up straight, head brushing the ceiling. If she wants to see him, then she shall see all of him. She will watch the monster unfold. 

Chapter Text

The sight of raw, splintering skin made her fall back through time and space. She awoke on the battlefield, sheltered in a flimsy, cotton tent, spattered in blood. There was screaming- of course, always screaming, ceaseless screaming- and a dying man lay before her. The tourniquet she had tied with her hands and teeth was not enough to halt the blood from pouring out of the man's wound. His leg, at the mid-thigh, was gone. Nothing remained that could be stitched back together. Chunks of muscle and tendons splayed out over what remained of his broken bone. That too, was beyond saving. The tourniquet would prolong the death, but it had also been an order. 

She blinks. The battlefield twists back into the familiar shape of her cabin. There is no dying man beside her, only a stranger in front of her. Looking at him is a relief. He is mangled, sure, and his doctor's work was rough at best, but he is alive. Alive is what matters.

She presumes that he has revealed himself to her in an attempt to scare her. Though her heart beats wildly in her throat, she will not indulge in his desire. She keeps her face blank, clenches her jaw to keep from gasping. He is not horrible, per se,  but he is certainly no human man. Quickly, she swallows.

"Now I can see you." 

The stranger says nothing. He waits like a dog, not out of patience, but intrigue. He looks like he expected her to scream, and the absence of it has sent him off-kilter. 

"Were you expecting me to run away like a child?"

The stranger tilts his head, dark hair curtaining his eyes. She pretends not to notice how red they have turned in the lantern light.

"Most do." 

She nods, forcing her nerves to settle into normalcy. "I have seen worse, I will admit. At least you have been stitched closed; many were not so lucky." She thinks of the poor, dying men from her past. If any of them had survived, maybe they would look like this stranger before her. 

"Luck." The stranger spits. "I would not call it so."

She pushes off from the wall behind her. "Are you not here right now, alive and breathing? That is luck enough."

He scoffs at her, the most animated she has seen him, and looks away from her. Annoyance bristles his icy features. The anger does not seem to suit him, though he carries it all the same. He is different, certainly, with patchwork skin of odd colors. Thick, black scars and bruised cheekbones. His eyes, though, his eyes are nearly too human. Watery, wide, and hungry. Not for flesh, for something greater. She wonders if he is hungry for hope. Once, long ago, she was hungry for it too. It was a happenstance that he found his way through the far north and onto her ship. If she believed in extraordinary things, she would have called it fate.

"I will allow you to leave if you wish, but you do not have to go," she tells him.

This seems to make him nervous. His gaze drops to the floor with pure embarrassment. "I do not wish to be a burden."

"You are not one to me." Her voice rises in pitch, matching the tone she keeps with Mouse, her youngest crew member. "Sit, please."

So he does. 

Nearly half an hour passes and she has coaxed nothing from him. In fact, she has begun to ask him odd questions and not pay any attention to his answers of little substance. She keeps his mind occupied with her voice while she assesses him. It is obvious he is no British spy, or any spy for that matter. He has an accent, but it morphs with each syllable, falling somewhere between German and French. He is easy to understand, though he talks slowly, skipping filler words and patching sentences together in the way one would if they were speaking English for the very first time. At least he speaks her mother tongue, she supposes that is enough for her. Hailing from England herself, she knows very little French and no German at all. 

The stranger sits in the chair as though he has never been offered one before. As though it hurts. And as tall as he is, heads over her own, he manages to curl so deeply into himself that he feels small. He is also soaked. His boots left watermarks on the floor and beneath his chair is an ever-expanding puddle. He shivers occasionally, but does not mention the cold. The tips of his fingers are black with hypothermia. 

Not a spy. Barely even a man. Certainly odd.

She grows more intrigued by the minute. 

What a perfect pirate.

"Would you say you are strong?" She blurts out, realizing they have begun to sit in uncomfortable silence.

The stranger nods. "Yes."

She braces her forearms on the desk, ignoring the spilled ink. "Stranger, I am going to make you an offer; refuse if you must, but I beg you to consider. I would like you to join me and become a part of my crew. You will have free room and food, rum and any fancy thing you may wish for. Pirates lead a pleasant life, especially on my ship. We go where the wind takes us, sail from port to port."

Silence.

She continues. "Now, normally I would not ask this to just anyone, but since you say you are no spy and you seem honest enough, I must. It also helps that I am recently down a seaman and desperately need someone large for heavy lifting." 

"Pirate?" He parrots, the word rolling off his tongue. He seems to be testing out the weight of this new role. "What is a pirate?"

She nearly laughs. What sort of place could a man like him have grown up in? Some strange land with no pirates? No, news, or books or maps? "We sail on ships around the world. We find treasures and trade them, sometimes we take jobs from people and sail their cargo to new places." 

"Who is we?"

She tips her head at the door behind her. "My mates and I. There are twenty-three of us, but we pick up others on occasion. I think you'd grow to like them, I certainly do."

The stranger begins to shake his head. "No. They will fear me."

"They will not. Trust me, we are quite like you," she argues. 

He pushes away from her desk and up onto his feet. He paces, furs billowing, water dripping. "No. No, they are not like me. No one is like me."

She understands his fear, knows how it feels to be viewed as something broken. Unwanted. When she returned home from the war, the villagers who had once adored her cast her aside. To them, she was nothing but a match that had fizzled out. Once bright, now broken. No one wanted to wed a war-torn girl. 

"Oh, but we are, Stranger. All of us were like you, unwanted. Some of us were cast out by our old ships, some of us simply had nowhere else to turn."

"None of you look like me." 

Out of habit, she grips her left shoulder. Her scars are impossible to see beneath her blouse, but she can feel them with her fingers. A reminder of how even she does not look like most anymore. "We are all different, Stranger. From each other and the world. I believe that you would find a place here amongst us, one misfit with all the rest."

He stops pacing and stares at her. Her words finally seem to reach past his eyes. "There is nothing wrong with you."

"Some wounds are surface level." She pulls at the collar of her blouse to showcase some of the scars that spiderweb across her left shoulder. 

His gaze slides over them, and curiosity flickers along his brow bone.

"Some wounds are not." She points to her ears. "The hearing in my left was destroyed during the war. My right works on good days." She pauses, struggling with honesty. "There are many bad days." 

He cocks his head. "How do you understand me?"

She indulges him like she would a child with all their innocent wonder. "I have grown good at reading lips; I was not always like this. I believe it makes things easier."

He presses a hand to his lips. Then drags his fingers to his throat, rumbling low. 

"Do you see now that we are not so different? Most of my crew started just as you are now, embarrassed and alone, discarded by the people meant to love them. We find each other here, we make a family."

"Yes," he admits.

She smiles, lips cracking from salt water. It is always nice to help a soul find a home.

"I would like to stay," he tells her. 

She leaves him then in her cabin, heading off to fetch food. He looks cold, and the north lacks abundant food. While the stranger is tall and bulky from furs, she knows he is likely bones beneath. 

"Bathe if you would like," she says before leaving. She points to the tub behind a screen divider and the barrel of water behind it. "I'll return soon with food."

He does not move.

She shuts the door behind her. 

The ship has gone quiet now that the night has fully sunk low over the sea. Empty kegs once full of alcohol still drip onto the deck, but she ignores them, knowing her crew will right them in the morning. She would consider herself a relaxed captain; life on The Irontide is not strict or full of work. On evenings such as this one, her crew relaxes. They sing and dance and drink until they're throwing up into the water, stumbling to bed. Now, an hour after the festivities, the ship is calm once more. 

She crosses the deck, arms wrapped around herself to shield from the biting wind. She wonders how the stranger came all this way alone in such a frost, how the frostbite eating at his limbs was not enough to fell him. Quickly, she descends a short set of stairs and turns into the cook room. The chef, Shug, has long since retired to bed. 

She takes a wet plate from a stack and piles it with boiled potatoes, a hard biscuit, and a strip of salted meat. It has been three weeks since they were last in port and it will be another week before they reach their next destination. Fruits ran out ages ago; her mouth waters at the thought of an orange. Soon, their stocks will overflow once more, and Shug will stop whining about having nothing to work with. 

A laugh bubbles in her throat. Hopefully, the stranger won't mind the lack of options. 

Finally, knowing the stranger will probably want to bathe away the cold, she takes a heated stone from the kitchen furnace and places it in a metal bucket for transport. As swiftly as she left, she returns, knocking once on her cabin door before slipping inside. The lantern is still on, a good sign, and the window is still closed. He did not leave. She breathes a sigh of relief at his choice to stay, barely for his own sake and mostly for her own. It will be nice to have a large man around who can lug crates and kegs around. 

She sets the plate of sad-looking food on her desk, the bucket on the floor, and peers around the room. A pile of furs sticks out from behind the screen divider. 

"I brought food," she calls into the emptiness.

There is no answer. In fact, now that she is really staring hard at the screen, she cannot make out his outline behind it. 

"Stranger?" 

Worry creeps down her spine. He must be in the tub; maybe he's embarrassed, but still, he should have answered her. Fear gets the better of her senses and she crosses the room, skirting past the divider. He is in the tub. Curled up to fit inside it and sunken to the bottom. The water is completely still.

A horrified scream pulls past her lips and she lunges forward, hands gripping the edge of the tub. She tries to shake the tub, but it is too heavy, especially now that it is full. Whether he is dead or simply ignoring her, he does not notice. Eyes closed, he looks utterly peaceful. She plunges both arms into the tub and grabs his shoulders, yanking hard. 

His eyes open underwater. He lets her drag him to the surface.

She pants, soaked up the elbows. "Bastard!" It's more of a breathless curse than a heavy one. How in god's name does someone sink in a bathtub? 

He sits up now that the water is churning from her struggle. His dark eyes blink slowly as she tosses more insults, his shoulders shrink. He curls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms over them, bath water dripping off his skin. 

She pauses to catch her breath, shivering in the cold. The water is absolutely icy; either he's been in there a long time, or he never heated the water to begin with. The boiling anger in her chest subsides. 

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to yell, I was just worried." She stares at him, wondering how he manages to look so small and innocent with such grotesque features. "What on earth were you doing?"

The stranger digs his fingers into the skin of his thighs. "I have never taken a bath before."

Her nose wrinkles in confusion. "Well, you aren't supposed to drown."

"I do not drown."

"It looked like it," she spits. Quickly, she shakes away the anger, wiping a wet hand over her face. Annoyance, while tempting, is futile. "Again, I apologize."

"I am sorry," he says like he truly means it. "I do not know what I am doing."

Her heart softens. "I am not mad at you. Come, let me teach you." It is like raising Mouse again, teaching him to button and lace his clothes, teaching him to wield a sword. She coaxes the stranger from the tub and he sits on the wood floor, folding in on himself. He does not seem embarrassed by the absence of clothing, only embarrassed by the scope of his ignorance. 

She pays his body no attention, focusing on draining the tub and not looking in his direction. "It is better to use warm water, especially since you look quite cold."

"Cold."

"Yes, that is what happens when you bathe in glacier water." A smile twists her lips. "You must heat it." She passes him to fetch the hot stone from its bucket.

His back is to her as she returns, and her eyes carve across the long scar down his spine. It is deeper than the others, but still, so surgically smooth. His wounds are impossible, and she realizes in the same second that they are not war made. Nothing of the world she knows could make scars such as the ones he bears. What magic could have made a creature like this?

She pushes past the thought as she drops the still-warm stone into the waiting bathwater. The stranger watches as she dips a finger into the tub, testing the heat. It isn't much better than before, but it is enough to make her skin tingle. "Alright then. In you go."

He stands at her beckon and slowly climbs back into the tub. This time, he does not sink to the bottom. His broad, gray shoulders and everything above sit above the water; his muscles are tense. He does not blink. He watches her with the curiosity of a lamb, eyes expressive with fear. He makes her feel like a wolf. It is an uncanny sensation. 

"Warmer is better, isn't it?"

He nods stiffly.

"We rarely bathe with hot water, so don't get used to it, stranger." 

"I will not," he promises, with all the earnestness of a child. "You are right, it is better." 

She sits behind him, on her knees, rubbing soap between her palms. "The Captain is always right."

"Captain?"

Her hands touch the top of his head, and he freezes. He chokes. She mumbles to him, something soothing, and he relaxes but an inch. Slowly, she drags her fingers through the dirty strands of his hair. He doesn't so much as breathe.

"What is a Captain?" He asks again, words shaky.

"I am the owner of this ship, a leader of sorts for my crew." She works over the scars on his scalp as gently as she can. The stranger shakes so badly that water ripples around his shoulders, but he stomachs her hands nonetheless. 

His voice is hoarse. "You are their keeper?"

"Not necessarily, some Captains can be quite cruel, yes, but I am not. We are a family, like I said. A democracy, not a monarchy." At his silence, she explains further. "I mean that we are all equals, no one's voice is louder than the rest." 

"Everyone's voice is heard." He speaks more to himself than to her.

She hums in agreement. 

His hair is cleaner now, no longer mangled. In the soft lantern light- covered in suds- it is deep brown, not oily black. He has relaxed a bit, now that he knows she is not trying to kill him. She hands him soap and tells him to scrub and then dunk fully under once he has finished. "Quickly", she adds. "Do not sink." While he does, she waits by her desk. 

She hears him leave the tub and don his clothes once more. When she looks up from her desk, he is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands clasped. "Alright, Stranger?"

He dips his head, water dripping onto the floor. Already, he looks less dead. If it weren't for those scars, he could pass as fair. 

She looks away to stop from staring. "There is food on the desk. You may sleep here tonight until I know what exactly to do with you. I don't want to dump you with the crew just yet without proper introductions."

"You would like me to sleep here?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Yes, in the bed. I will leave you to it and shall wake you in the morning. Do you need anything else?" 

"Where will you go? Is this not your home?" He looks distressed.

Soft laughter warms the air. "My home is very large, you will see it all tomorrow." She heads to the door, but he makes a noise, stopping her as she reaches for the handle.

"Thank you." His head is hung low; he does not meet her soft gaze. 

She wills him in her mind to look up, to see the moisture shining in her eyes. To see that she will not hurt him. He does not look up.

"Stranger, when they meet you tomorrow they will have questions. What am I to tell them?" 

Silence.

She is merciful. "I will tell them that you are a soldier from the war and you cannot remember anything before it. They will not believe me, just as I do not believe me, but they will not challenge it. We will wait until you are ready to share your truth with us."

He looks at her then, but she is already turning away.

Chapter Text

The creature awakens in the morning to the absence of pain. His eyes open slowly, blinking, as raw sunlight filters in through the round window. He wiggles his toes and fingers beneath the thick blankets above him, marveling at the sensation. It is the first time in a very long time that he is not cold. He has never slept in a bed before. The soft cushion beneath him has done wonders for his aching back; his head lulls against a silk pillow. 

His eyes follow the sloping, golden streaks of sun around the room. It is smaller than he remembers. Less frightening. It is also plain. Wooden furniture placed atop a wooden floor surrounded by wooden walls. No, the real view is outside. He sits up in the bed, watching large, white birds fly past the window. If he cranes his neck, he can just make out the deep, blue water beneath him. The ship rocks gently against the waves. He can hear the boat groan as it floats, as the wood is pummeled by waves and wind. One of those white birds shrieks in the distance. Above him, he can hear the thuds of dozens of pairs of feet moving about, voices sinking beneath the ceiling. He has never been so acutely aware of sound. The cacophony of voices and movements, humans and animals alike. The world sings, and he is able to hear it so clearly. He thinks of the woman, who likely hears nothing at all.

He leaves the bed with a soft sigh, and his skin misses the warmth instantly. He wraps his furs tighter around himself. 

Footsteps outside the door remind him that she is coming to fetch him. A part of him expects her to return in anger, maybe she has realized the depth of her mistake, allowing him on board. Maybe she will make him jump off the side of the boat, better yet, push him herself. Watch as he sinks under the icy sludge and drowns for the third time in his modicum of a life. 

She does no such thing. 

The woman opens the door and smiles at him. "Morning, Stranger."

He nods his head, hands shaking beneath his cloak. "Hello."

She shuts the door with a click and leans against it, arms crossed. Her eyes are alight with mirth. "Did you sleep alright? Most of the newer seamen find themselves quite sick for the first few nights. End up spewing their dinners to the fish."

"Not sick." At least not that he can remember. All he remembers is climbing into bed and then total darkness until the sun rose. 

She huffs a laugh. "Good, you're one of the lucky ones."

There the word is again, luck. It turns his mouth sour. Luck was for mortals, for Victor, who escaped his pain and his creation. Luck was for people who lied and cheated, who won time and time again without lifting so much as a finger. The creature closes his eyes to quell the rage building in his chest, thumping louder than his heart. 

"Before we go, Stranger, I forgot something important yesterday. I can't go introducing you to my crew without a name." 

A name. 

No one. That tiny phrase is all that fills his skull, bouncing off the sensitive parts of his brain and filling him with pure misery. He feels that familiar sense of utter sadness for himself. Those first few days of life when he was nothing but innocent to the world and towards his maker. The maker who could not give him so much as a name. Who forced life upon him but could not grant him the reprieve of identity. Could he be someone without a name? How was he to live life? He was floating through time and space, nameless and alone. No one. 

She fills the silence of his long pause. "I'm Lena, but everyone calls me Captain, or Tern. Lena is for special occasions."

"Lena," he responds. Lee-nuh. "Captain. Tern." How loved was she, to have been awarded not one name but three?

She nods. "Yes, that's right. Tern may seem an odd name, I know, but the crew gives each other nicknames and mine happens to be Tern."

The creature tilts his head. "What is a nickname?"

"We used to use them for business, but now we use them all the time. They're symbols that represent us, our spirit in a way, or something fundamental about us. I'm Tern like the seabird, for obvious reasons."

The creature points a finger at himself. He may not have a name, but he must have a nickname. "What is mine?"

She chuckles. "They don't come that quickly, Stranger. We earn them."

Time. He supposes that is all he has anyway, a forever of time. 

"You do still need a name, Stranger. You can make one up if you'd like, we'll rename you later anyway." She uncrosses her arms, planting her palms on her hips. Her elbows jut out on each side of her torso; they remind him of the wings of a bird. Tern. Yes, it seems to suit her. 

He tells her the first thing that comes to mind. "Adam." The first of his kind. Created for life, but leading to destruction. 

This seems to satisfy her. She holds out a small hand to him and he takes it gently. Her skin is warm against his, tan and freckled and utterly alive. She shakes his hand and he grins at the sensation of his arm wiggling around like a waterless fish. "Pleasure to meet you, Adam."

He is nervous to leave the familiar confines of Tern's cabin. His body lingers in the open doorway, boots toeing the line of no return. The steady pounding of his heartbeat in his ears has reached the same erratic speed it had when he'd first stumbled upon the old man in the woods. It is a sensation called fear, the word out of all others he seems to know the most. 

Tern throws a soft, knowing smile over her shoulder. "Do not be afraid, Adam. You are safe on my ship, at least from my crew." She winks, but the expression is swallowed up by the Sun as he steps into the broad daylight.

Instantly, it is colder. The wind blows sharply across the top of the boat, spraying tiny water droplets onto his face. He takes tentative steps towards her, head ducked low, cringing from his sudden bareness. There is no mask to cover his face; his hood rests on his shoulders. He fights the urge to pull it up. To run back into Tern's room and cower beneath her soft blankets. A tug on his arm makes him snap his eyes back up.

She is watching him carefully, her hand gripping the thick fur of his coat. "Do you see that wheel up at the front, Adam?"

He tracks the object at a near distance from him, raised on a platform. He nods.

"That is called the Helm, it's what steers us." She takes a few measured steps towards it. "Our helmsman is who moves it around. It is a very important job." 

He follows her up the few steps towards the Helm, where a burly man stands in wait. The man pays him no attention, simply stares out at the sea. He is taller than Tern, but still a head below the creature. His skin is darker than any man the creature has ever seen before. A rich, warm brown, bisected by thin scarring along the right half of his face. 

"This is Teeth, Teeth meet Adam." Tern sweeps a hand out towards the man, who nods slightly. It is the only reaction he gives. Tern's eyebrows shoot up, and she leans into the creature, whispering, though they are close enough to the other man that he can surely hear them. "He iss very sweet once you get to know him." She raises her voice. "And his diligence for work is much appreciated."

The man, without sparing them a glance, smiles into the distance, revealing two rows of golden teeth. 

The creature exhales in astonishment. He tries to lean in, but Tern pulls him away.

"Fitting name, eh?" She pivots on the heels of her brown boots and marches them both off the Helm. "Come now, Adam, there is much more to see."

They walk past tall poles of wood, billowing, white fabric, and cords of rope that dangle from the sky. Tern calls them sails; they catch the wind and blow the ship forward. She also says that they need new ones, but material that size is expensive and hard to come by. He notices the patchwork patterns, white stitched with random textile scraps by dark, black thread. He holds his arm in the air, cloak pooling at his bent elbow, skin held to the light. The sails remind him of himself, though they are much more beautiful.

Tern points to the top of the tallest pole, the Main Mast. At the top is a large basket, sizable enough to fit a small man inside. She calls this the Crow's Nest. Used for looking out across the ocean and spying on other ships, a ladder made out of rope is used to climb up and down it. 

If the creature squints away the sunlight, he can see a figure circling the top. "Who is up there?"

Tern smiles. "Her name is Mags, she's quite lovely. Comes down on occasion, but I believe she prefers it up there in the sky. I'm sure you will stumble upon her at some point. Please do not take her shyness as avoidance." 

The creature nods, for what else is he to do? All of these new names are bouncing around his mind. When he was first learning the way of things, he absorbed information like a sponge. His appetite for knowledge was far more ferocious than his fear of rejection. He read every book the old man gave him, listened to every lecture, devoured scenery like sustenance. He saw the world in questions and could-be's. That light had fizzled out quickly. It was impossible for him now to see the world as anything other than cruel. There were no questions, just hard, painful answers. It made the knowledge he had learned seem meaningless. Why did it matter that he knew the names of great cities and languages if he could not be a part of them himself? What good was knowledge without someone to share it with?

"Are you alright, Adam? I do not mean to bombard you with so many things at once; it is just that there is so much." She eyes him with worry, her hands shoved into the low pockets of her trousers. "You will not meet everyone today, if that is what you are worried about. Well, you might, I do not know what Digs has planned for you." At his confusion, she continues. "Right, sorry, I should have told you this in the morning. My best mate, Digs, will be showing you your new quarters."

"You are leaving?" He hates the sudden terror that mounts in his chest. He supposes that is one proponent of knowing everything, one would never be surprised. 

She is gracious enough to ignore the whine of his pitch. Her eyes scan the sea's edge, impossibly far away. "No, I will be here, just not with you. I have things to prepare for in the coming week. But Digs is very nice, you'll be just fine."

He lets it slip then- between the crashing of waves and rippling of the masts- the bare truth. Because it is just them for a brief moment on the deck, because Tern should know him at least a little. "I am so afraid."

She does speak or even move for a long while. Her eyes are still locked on the sun and the end of the earth. Just when he thinks she did not hear him, when the muscles of his shoulders ease, she opens her mouth. 

"So am I, Adam. I would wager that we're all afraid. But you do not have to sit in your fear alone. That is what family is for, I hope you find it here as I have." She turns away from the water, gaze travelling to him before flitting away once more. "Ah, there is Digs, late as usual."

If anyone could wrap around the length of the world in words, Digs could do it easily. He talked more than the creature could listen. At such a speed that made it nearly impossible for the creature to even understand. He was also a quick walker. The pair had explored every crevice of the ship, every room and tiny, cloying hallway. The creature liked seeing it all; it made him feel more at ease to know what was in store for him. He also enjoyed how fast Digs was; it meant that the creature would not have to force himself to step so small as to not leave others behind in the wake of his long stride. 

Digs was also kind. In the rough-around-the-edges sort of way. He paid absolutely no attention to the state of the creature's scars and skin, and he certainly gave the creature no time to stumble over speech. Digs had walked up to Tern and the creature and swapped her easy-going acceptance for something blunter. He did not care about the creature at all; he simply wanted someone to speak to and chose the nearest available vessel. 

Now, the two were standing in the crew's quarters, a large room with rows of hanging fabric attached to the low ceiling on either end. 

"Not too shabby, eh?" Digs asks, sweeping out a hand. He leaves the creature no opening to respond. "We each get assigned a hammock to sleep in, but really, we just chose whichever one we want. There's always extra." He sits inside one of the hammocks and beckons the creature to follow.

The creature does, tentatively. He turns around and lowers onto it carefully as the fabric swings back and forth. The moment his backside sinks down, he nearly tumbles backwards. It will be something to get used to. 

"You can have this one, it's right next to mine," Digs says. His legs are touching the creature's, their bodies pressed together at the sides to fit inside the hammock's flimsy shell. "What do ya think? It ain't horrible, right? Pirates ain't actually nasty like the stories, eh?" 

The creature shakes his head. "No, not nasty." The word reminds him of something Victor had called him. Even if pirates were nasty like the stories he has never even read, the creature would fit right in. 

"How'd you like Captain? She's a right woman, eh? Close friend of mine, saved me life a million times." He leans back, half lying across the hammock.

The creature shifts, attempting to make space where there isn't any, but Digs does not seem to mind their closeness. "She is generous to allow me on this ship."

Digs hums in agreement. His eyes are closed. "Aye, she is. What were you done in for? Ain't nobody abandoned in the far north for no reason."

It is a question he does not know how to answer. The creature was abandoned simply for the small grievance of living- of the beating heart bestowed upon him by his creator. He supposes he chose the far north in a way, for a short while, after Victor died, the creature expected he would walk the frozen wasteland forever. He had not wanted to, had been lonely beyond belief, but the idea had seemed safer than venturing into the sunlight. Yes, he was lonely, but heartbreak, abandonment, and fear were worse feelings. Loneliness was his prerogative; abandonment came from others.

Digs sighs. "I don't suppose you'll answer."

"I do not remember," the creature says, because he is not quite ready to tell the truth. Because the truth is more painful than this little lie. 

The man beside him lifts his eyebrows. "Least it may not be something horrible." He pauses. "Though your skin would beg to differ."

Sharp, stinging heat flares in the creature's cheeks. Embarrassment, hot and pure. 

Digs shrugs as best he can from his horizontal position. "Well, we each got our stories. I myself got a nasty one. Used to be on a different ship, ya see. Then the Captain caught whiff of me and another mates... activities. Understand me, eh?"

The creature did not, but he nodded all the same. 

"Cut off my good hand." Digs lifts one of his arms up, stumped at the wrist. The skin has grown over the wound, and maybe it is because his skin is dark, but there seems to be no visible scar. "Kicked me off the boat in Hayti, nearly died from blood loss. All for the sin of love."

The creature leans in, studying the wound. "Will it grow back?"

Digs lets out a booming laugh. "Ha! You are a funny man, Adam!"

The creature supposes this is a "no". It is puzzling for him to listen to Digs speak lightheartedly about love when the consequence was a severed limb. "How is love a sin?"

Digs shrugs. "Suppose some people think it's a choice, but I disagree." He flourishes his arms in the air and brings them back down to his sides. The hammock rocks. "Therefore, I sin!" He calls, dramatically. 

The creature does not know what side to believe. It was Victor's choice to love him and the man chose not to. But the creature does not feel as though he had the choice to love his maker, it was simply a fact. Something wired into his biology, sewn in along with the rest of his body. Manufactured. He hated Victor, yes, and he loved him too. The love was not a but, not something despite, just in tandem with the action of living. "I loved a man once who did not love me the same."

Digs chuckles, more somber. "Ah, my friend, haven't we all?"

"He was my father," the creature snarls. "My own father."

Digs sits up now. "Ah, a child's first heartbreak. To love your father is to let him betray you. I know this feeling too."

"Horrible," the creature adds. "Horrible feeling."

"Yes, my friend. Now imagine how the feeling grows when it ain't your father who betrays you, but yer lover. That's true pain if I've ever felt it."

The creature thinks this over. He is not quite sure what a lover is, just that, according to Digs, there must be two different kinds of love. Love for your family and love for someone else. He has never felt either, maybe once, Elizabeth had come close to his heart. Maybe the old man in the woods had come close. He loved them both, perhaps, the kind of love that would have made it easy to lose a hand; still, the love he felt for them does not sound similar to the love Digs describes. "What does it feel like?" 

Digs tips his head back in thought. "Suppose it feels like dying in a way. Just know that when I was bleeding out and lost on Hayti, I didn't think about myself even once; was fixated on the man I left behind, even when I shouldn't a been. He's the one who betrayed me, nearly killed me, and all I cared about was if he was gonna be okay. Ain't ever seen him again, so I don't know." Digs shrugs. "Damn his whore mama, that man made it impossible to ever really love again. All but sworn it off, I have."

"Yes," the creature agrees. "I have sworn away love as well." In a way, he has, because he knows it will never bestow itself upon him. A monster's life is a life spent alone. 

This makes Digs wag a finger. "Ah ah, be careful now, Adam! One day, love will come for you and knock ya right off ya feet!"

"Not if I have sworn it away."

Digs tsks his tongue, lips pursed in a thoughtful frown. "Capt'n says there's a healthy balance or something like that. She's like you though, ain't ever been in love. You poor bastards."

The creature shakes his head. He has fought for a life full of love, fought for longer than he should have. His hands are bloody over the thought of love. But he knows now that wishing for love is the same as wishing for death, and both are things he will never be afforded. Desire is a dangerous thing. "I do not need love."

Oh, but he wants it.

Digs escapes the hammock, holding out a steady hand to help the creature to his feet. "Oh, don't be silly, Adam! Every man needs love."

But the creature is no man.

He is no one at all.