Chapter Text
The first thing Lawrence Talbot noticed was the absence of pain.
There had been agony before: white-hot cracking at the front of his skull, a snapping of bone, screaming caught halfway in a snarl - but now...
Now there was nothing but weight. It was a dull, floating sensation that made him think, for a moment, that maybe he'd gotten what he'd wanted. Am I...dead?
But then the ceiling above him swam into focus - off-white plaster and flickering gaslight. Then came the smell of alcohol, bleach, and linen. He tried to move his head, but something was wrapped tight around it. Reaching up, he brushed his fingers against the fabric of bandages. Confusion came over him.
"You're awake."
Larry tried to turn, but he saw a dark-haired man, maybe around his age, leaning over him, wearing a white coat and a cautious expression. His features bore a similarity to a certain fellow he remembered - Frank Andrews. There was no way this could be him. "You've had a rather nasty head injury," the doctor continued. "Surgery was necessary, but you came through better than expected. Can you tell me your name?"
The words stuck in his throat at first. He coughed dryly, finally answering. "Lawrence...Talbot."
A silence followed. Not long, but long enough to be uncomfortable. The doctor's face didn't change much, but something flickered behind his eyes - was it recognition of the name, or pity, or the cold calculation of a man of science? He scribbled something on the clipboard at the foot of the bed. "You were found unconscious just outside town. I loathe to say it and the policeman who found you stated you were..." He hesitated, clarning his throat. "...indecent, not a thread on."
Indecent. The word brought back the memories of every night he woke up with no recollection:
His feet dirty with moss and soil, the tracks brought into his room...the scent of blood in the air not his own...the mud streaking his thighs...a whisper of nature tangled where it shouldn't be - grass clinging to his inner thigh, a twig embedded in the curls there. And that was the morning after the gravedigger's death.
He lay on the forest floor, again completely unclothed...his ankle painfully in the bear trap, but no signs of blood and injury...again, pine needles in his groin. And it didn't help SHE saw him as she came to his rescue.
"- no identification," the doctor said, bringing him back to the present. "Do you remember anything?"
Larry's heart began to race. He couldn't speak. The doctor - ironically Frank Mannering, just his luck it had to be - tried to ease him, offering water and soft reassurances, but the patient wasn't hearing them. His mind was already tumbling backward, spiraling into memory:
A room with heavy curtains.
A cane with a silver wolf's head.
Himself bound to the chair so he could see the action.
Father's voice, sharp and hollow: "You'll see now, Larry, that this talk of werewolves is nonsense..."
And his own words, breathless and desperate: "Dad...take the cane. Take it, please."
Because he'd KNOWN. He felt the change coming again, what was inside him - and he'd begged the man he loved despite their issues to protect himself. And Gwen.
~o~
Staring down once more at the letter from the Mayor of Goldstadt, Baroness Elsa Frankenstein found herself subtly biting her bottom lip.
Father left me the old properties, and Peter has the family home in New York.
It had been scarcely two months since her father, Wolf Frankenstein, passed. She and her brother had received the news only after weeks of slow travel across the Atlantic. Their mother, Amelia, had been gone for several years now, but her voice still lingered in Elsa's memory - half-bitterness, half-longing. Amelia had claimed her estranged husband was a good man who tried to do right by his family, but in the end chose his inheritance. A burden she believed had never been his to carry.
Peter was less forgiving. "He and Mother never divorced, but the separation was too much. You were an infant, Elsa; you never saw what she saw. Just know it tore us apart. And it began with Grandfather Henry."
The name, Henry Frankenstein, was spoken in Goldstadt only as a curse. In America, it meant nothing, but here? It was still taboo. Everyone knew the story: the man who breached the law of Heaven, who sought to create life when only God could do so. His intentions had unleashed horror. Her father had tried to redeem the name, but the old, broken-necked shepherd - Ygor, as she'd been told - had twisted him to his own ends. And in the aftermath, conflicting accounts: some claimed Wolf had killed Ygor when his family was threatened, others that Ygor simply vanished only to be found dead in the hills.
Perhaps the Mayor would tell her what her family had not.
Elsa was unsure of how long she would be here or what to expect, but she was sure she could handle this, woman or not.
The carriage at last drew to a halt. She inhaled deeply, then stepped out, accepting the driver's hand. She was dressed for business in a fitted gown of deep midnight blue, the sleeves brushing her elbows, and the skirt heavy with ruffle. Golden pearls gleamed from her ears, echoed in the strand about her throat - more warm glow patterned with brilliant white and mysterious black, defiant against the gray autumn sky. Her hair, pale gold and cool as ice, was braided and coiled into a precise bun.
Mayor Ernst Bauer awaited her at the steps - an older man with sharp eyes and the practiced air of authority, albeit light-natured. He excitably inclined his head. "Baroness Frankenstein, I take it?"
"Indeed, Mayor."
He clasped her hand briefly, then brushed it with his lips, courtly if perfunctory. "My deepest sympathies for your father. I knew him, after he first returned here; I was on the council when he received the deed. Can't say he was warmly welcomed, not then, not ever. If you see the sign outside the old mansion, you'll understand."
Elsa frowned. A sign? "Oh, you weren't aware. It states loudly and clearly Eingang Verboten - 'entry forbidden'. The same is said of that old tower in the hills, though it has been a ruin since the explosion...shortly before your grandparents, Henry and Elizabeth Frankenstein, departed Goldstadt."
The tower..Grandfather's experiments. Father's, too, though for different reasons.
Once inside, Elsa beheld the house that had once been her family's pride. Its ancestral glory was faded and hollow, the air itself carrying the scent of abandonment. To think this place had once stood as a symbol of honor, only to be corrupted by her grandfather's hubris.
Mayor Bauer guided her into the parlor, where the fire barely held against the chill. "Your father left the matter of the estate in your hands, Baroness. If you wish to sell it, no one would blame you. But should you keep it, be prepared. The town will not forget the name Frankenstein. Still," he added with a slight smile, "he provided generously for you, your brother, and your mother. You will want for nothing."
Elsa's voice softened. "He always did, Mayor."
The man gave a short, knowing chuckle. Then he reached into his coat and held out an envelope. The handwriting was unmistakable: TO MY DEAREST DAUGHTER, ELSA.
Her breath caught, and for a moment, she was not the Baroness she had become, but the girl who adored the father she barely knew.
~o~
I'm in Queen's Hospital. But how did I get here in Cardiff? No one will tell me.
I had the surgery to my brain, but I feel no pain. Just like the morning after the wolf bit me. But why - why isn't Father here? He could...he could tell me what happened last night, and if Gwen was safe. Oh, Gwen, please be okay.
Larry was still lying in bed later that day when the door creaked open, and Dr. Mannering returned along with the nurse. With them was a man in a taupe coat and dark hat, his mouth too intense. "I'm Inspector Owen. Mr...Talbot, was it?"
He sat up, ignoring the tug in his skull. "Yes. I - please, I need to speak to my father. Sir John Talbot. He lives at Talbot Castle in Llanwelly Village, he -"
The man's face twisted - not cruel, but pained. Almost embarrassed, and combined with suspicion.
"Mr. Talbot, if that's really your name, I spoke to the police in Llanwelly. Lawrence Talbot was buried four years ago; it was confirmed by the policeman present at his funeral."
The universe stopped. Four years...not last night... "D-died?" Larry rasped. "My...my father..."
"Died in his grief soon after. The story goes that there had been a wild animal that killed a couple villagers - a young lady, then the gravedigger, and almost got another woman -" Gwen? "- before Sir John Talbot came to the rescue and bludgeoned it to death. Only in the dark, confusion reigned supreme when it was revealed he accidentally killed his own son."
His father died after him, but that meant Gwen Conliffe was safe; she must have married Frank Andrews by now. His heart broke, but he was happy for her, and she was protected. But the world had moved on without him.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He saw it in the eyes of the doctor and nurse: delirium. Post-surgical trauma. Hallucinations from a man claimed to be long-dead. And Inspector Owen looked at him as an imposter. No one believes me, just as no one believed me before.
And so he tried to escape.
He didn't want to hurt anyone, only wanted to get far enough away. He grabbed for the doorknob to rush the hallway. But it ended with hands holding him down, followed by needles in his arm, and soon leather straps wrapping his chest and arms tight - a straightjacket. He woke in it, alone.
The moon rose, and with it came the fracture. A soundless shattering, like glass breaking behind his eyes. Pressure built in his skull, his chest, in every bone. His pulse hammered not with fear but grim certainty.
It was happening again.
The straightjacket bit into his throat, his lungs dragging at the air. His teeth clenched, breath becoming ragged. Not here. Not inside. Not where they can't run -
Larry bucked once, twice, a muffled snarl tearing from him. The beast clawed upward, rising through him like bile.
This time, the change began with the teeth. They sharpened against his gums, splitting them; blood flooded his mouth. Bound hands useless, he bent low and bit into the leather. Bitter hide filled his mouth, but his teeth were stronger now. Stitch by stitch, the straps began to snap.
Bones cracked. Muscle tore and knit again. Skin rippled as fur forced its way through, a wildfire across his flesh.
The scream that ripped from his throat was neither man nor wolf, but something damned between.
The jacket split wide open. And the door, though barred with iron, would not hold him for long.
~o~
The paper trembled faintly in Elsa's hands as she broke the seal. Her father's handwriting sprawled across the page, at once strong and yet uneven, the hand of a man grown weary. She drew in a breath and began to read.
My dearest daughter,
When you read these words, I shall already be gone, and the silence that has haunted my later years will be all that remains of me.
I was not the father you and Peter deserved. I left you and your mother, permitting you to go back to America, chasing the phantoms of a name already ruined. I told myself I did so to redeem the honor of Frankenstein, but truthfully, I was running from failure, from ridicule, and from my own doubt. I buried myself in shadows, living behind closed doors while others tended my simplest needs. I became a ghost, even before death claimed me.
I remember my father's words to me, the same ones you now read, from his old letter: 'Carry on, though the path is cruel and torturous...' For a time, I believed him. I thought if I succeeded where he faltered, I might bring light instead of horror. But Henry Frankenstein's path led me only to ruin and the bloodstained hills of this cursed land.
The night I killed Ygor, I thought it an end. He had twisted all my efforts to his own sinister designs, using my father's creation for vengeance. I cast his body - with help - into the ravines and told myself the nightmare was over. I fed my father's diary and formulas to the fire and swore no man would ever again use them.
Yet there was one thing I could not destroy. One thing my conscience forbade me.
Your grandfather's creation lives still. His Bride, too. They did not ask to exist, Elsa - they are not to blame for the sins that birthed them. They are flesh and blood, with hearts that beat and eyes that know sorrow. Whatever else they may be, they are innocents in this tale of hubris and madness. And so I hid them, deep within this estate, in places no villager dares tread. I swore to protect them, for their existence is my responsibility.
I leave that duty now to you.
Whether you choose to remain here or to sell these properties and return to America, the decision is yours. But know this: should you stay, my daughter, you will not stand alone. The creation himself, whatever the world calls him, will guard you as he once guarded me. He is not without loyalty nor compassion. But he must never, under any circumstances, fall into the hands of those who would use him again.
But if you ever find yourself unable to sell the estate...go below.
I could not redeem the name of Frankenstein. Perhaps redemption is not ours to claim. But perhaps you, Elsa, with your strength and heart, may yet do what I could not.
Carry on, my dearest child, not for the sake of legacy or vanity, but for the living who depend upon you. Know that I loved you always, though I was too weak to show it.
Your father,
Wolf von Frankenstein
When the last words blurred on the page, she closed her eyes, pressing the letter to her chest and letting the silence of the old house envelop her. Her father's plea pulled about her heart like a chain.
Wolf Frankenstein's final confession wasn't of madness or shame, but a truth he had protected for decades. The Creature lived, as did his mate. It had been Wolf's duty, and now hers, to guard them.
Elsa pressed the back of her hand to her lips, her throat aching. He had borne this burden alone. No wonder the distance in his eyes in those later years, when passing the old portraits in this house, the few times she and Peter had bothered to visit after Mother's passing. Here she was now, after leaving the drawing room where she read the letter. The house felt larger now that she was alone; the mayor's footsteps had long since faded down the gravel drive, leaving silence thick enough to weigh on her shoulders.
She lifted her gaze, drawn to the frames lining the hall. Landscape paintings of Goldstadt's mountains and forest, proud but darkened with dust. A stern likeness of Ludwig Frankenstein, her great-grandfather, hung opposite a gentler rendering of her mother, Amelia. Her father Wolf's melancholy in his twilight years had been captured just beside her.
Just beyond that was a portrait of Elizabeth Frankenstein; her grandmother's eyes were luminous and calm, her pale green dress softened by the painter's hand, but Elsa couldn't look away from the way Elizabeth seemed to hold secrets behind that serene smile.
And there next to her, dominating the end of the corridor - her grandfather, Henry. The artist had captured the arrogance in his jaw, the brilliance in his gaze, the spark of a man who thought he could rival God. For a second, she couldn't breathe, seeing how the light of the candelabrum flickered across his eyes as though he were watching her.
For a long moment, she stood between them both - the creator and the wife who bore the burden of his genius - and felt the weight of inheritance pressing close around her heart.
She carried Wolf's letter like a stone in her hand. They lived on. He kept them safe. Her father had chosen not to destroy Henry's legacy but to hide it, protect it, even nurture it. The one line made her act:
"But if you ever find yourself unable to sell the estate...go below."
Knowing what he meant, Elsa set about to find the concealed door, which was not difficult to find if one had been raised or not in this manor. Picking up the nearest candelabra, which sputtered as she made her way to the library, her instinct told her this might be it, for she remembered once her father coming here and then vanishing, but she'd thought nothing of it at the time.
There was the panel in the wall to the doorway's right, invisible to the naked eye unless you paid attention. She pressed it, and a rush of cool air escaped, smelling of stone and earth.
Down the narrow steps she went, the silk of her dressing gown brushing against damp stone, and her heart hammering louder with each step. The emerald folds whispered about her ankles as Elsa moved deeper into the dark, candlelight licking at the stone walls. The ethereal fabric caught and released the light with every step, gleaming like deep water. Against the dim corridor and its watchful portraits upstairs, she'd looked like one of them come to life; her grandmother's painted gaze seemed to almost follow her, as though the gown's green mirrored the very shade of the dress in the portrait. When she raised the candelabra higher, the fabric shimmered in copper and gold sparks, a living echo of the family legacy she carried with her into this hidden place.
The flames threw long shadows across barrels, crates, and discarded medical instruments wrapped in cloth. The air grew heavy, almost...expectant.
There, at the far end of the vault, she saw them.
A towering shape hunched in the half-dark, broad shoulders rising and falling with slow breaths. Beside him, seated with her hands folded in her lap, a woman in snowy wrappings and with raven black hair streaked with white, her pale profile turned toward the flame. Neither moved.
The Creature lifted his head, his eyes finding her.
Elsa gasped, caught between terror and awe, her candelight quivering. Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. "I...I am Elsa. Granddaughter of Henry Frankenstein...daughter of Wolf."
For a long moment, only silence answered her, until the great figure stirred. His eyes were heavy and fathomless. Then he spoke, voice deep and rough, carrying the weight of years.
"I know."