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[{IRS}Athos]

My feet crunched on the Irish shingle beach as I looked back on the events that had led up to my leave-taking of my dear friend Victor. As we travelled together, I did my best to alleviate the strange melancholy that seemed to dog him, but not even the stunning mountain vistas of Switzerland, the willow-islands of the Rhine, or the verdant grasslands of England could cheer him.

As we approached the Scottish highlands, he entreated me to let him travel alone, telling me that he needed peace and solitude. I wished to dissuade him, but at last I capitulated to his desires.

“I entreat you to write often,” I told him, “for I had rather be with you in your solitary rambles than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know: hasten, then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence.”

He left then, and I, alone, paid a fisherman for a boat to Ireland. It was after several weeks that I felt compelled to partake of the fresh sea air on the beach, and there I found myself. Thus, after leaving him, I pondered how to restore him to his former gaiety and his long-ago self, which was so achingly like my own.

Beyond me, the sea glimmered with moonlight, sending beautiful ever-shifting reflections off the cliff wall beside me. All was silent, save for my footsteps and the endless song of the waves.

I paused, driven by passion for nature’s wonder to gaze across the waters at the star-dusted sky. Gradually, I realized that a dark speck was advancing swiftly across the sea, throwing up a bow wave of clear water. The figure within, rowing with strong strokes, was indistinguishable save as a human being of gigantic stature. I felt a strange chill that had nothing to do with the light sea breeze.

The boat rode up the shore with a time, grinding the shingle beneath it as it ran aground several meters before me. The strange figure approached me, looming over me by more than two feet.

“Greetings, stranger,” I said amiably.

“And a greeting to you,” replied the stranger. His voice was deep and resonant, but gravelly, like a rockslide echoing through a dark canyon. “Tell me, are you a friend of Victor Frankenstein?”

I seized upon his question with a vigorous kind of joy. “Yes, good sir,” I said. “Have you news of him?”

The stranger paused, seeming uncertain. “Yes. He has broken a promise he made to me, and I wish for you to convince him otherwise.”

“Good sir, I cannot believe that he would break a promise. Victor is a very honorable man.”

“Nonetheless, he refuses to fulfill his vows to me!” The stranger’s voice was angry now. Abruptly, he seemed to calm and plead with me. “You must help me.”

“Surely, I can convince him of the legitimacy of your cause,” I reassured him. “What manner of request did you make of him?”

The stranger paused. “To make for me a mate, of like form to me,” he said finally.

“Sir, there are many women in this world. Why would…” My voice trailed off in a strangled hiss as he raised his hands to his hood. They were fearful, yellowed flesh. His face was even worse: ugly, misshapen, and contrasting sharply with his lustrous black hair. He was the very picture of the Devil.

“Avaunt, foul spirit, and trouble my friend no more!” I cried, warding him off. “Verily I see why Victor refused to aid thee. Away, be gone!”

The monster locked my throat in a powerful grip. “I had thought that you were different than him,” he growled, grasping harder. I struggled spasmodically, clawing at his hands, but my efforts were no match for the inexorable power of his demonic strength. His manic eyes seemed to pierce my very core, reveling in my agony while showing anguish of his own. I writhed in his burning grasp before the last spark of my own life was extinguished, eternally.