Burial
Victor walked until he found a private spot far from farms and houses, where the grass was green, the trees shaded the ground, and the river ran clear and clean by the shore.
Victor Frankenstein stripped off his clothes.
The water lapped at his toes, his ankles, his calves, his knees, warmer than any stream he’d ever known.
He felt the silt on the palms of his feet. Dripped sparkling gems from his fingertips on his heated flesh until it trembled with goose pimples.
He crouched, dipping his head underwater. Let it sluice down his back when he stood. He scrubbed at his hair, opening his mouth to tongue at the flavor of his own salt as it ran past his lips.
He took the time to feel every part of himself. Memorize it.
Even the hidden parts like the valleys on the inside of his ear, the crease behind his knees, the inside of his elbows. Skin thin, rough, tender, bruised, or soft as lamb’s ears leaves—lightly furred or dense with hair.
He ran his fingers down his sternum, over his shoulders, parted his thighs. Stooped low to do his ankles and traced the arch of his step.
Then he waded farther in, eyes still watching his priceless belongings on the shore. Far enough that the water lapped at his chest.
Victor took the talisman out of his mouth and pushed the feeling of cool water on sunburned skin to Elias. The buzzing of his flesh made ripe with his own fingertips. The wind in his blond curls, gentle and fresh. The sun growing weaker in the dying day.
Before Elias could respond, Victor popped the talisman back in his mouth and headed for the shore.