secretsofheavenandearth-deactiv said:

"I... never imagined I would see you again, after the havoc you have wrought upon all I hold dear. I dreamt of it -- dreams brought on by wild anger, possessed by all the devils of revenge. But I never truly thought it would come to pass. And now I... I know not how to make you answer for all this... Why do you still live?"

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             ”A question, accursed creator, I might fairly put to you. Was it not you who formed me? Did you not fashion me to endure more than a man? Eternal life was the goal sought through my creation; those very words you noted endlessly in your journal. I live because you saw fit to curse me with life! My crimes fall upon you, my wretched father, for without your work, never would breath have stirred in my breast.” 

themanofonebook said:

Nightmares? No. He has dreams. Splendid dreams. Dreams in which Victor has not abandoned him; dreams in which Victor loves and cherishes him and raises him in his image. It is when he wakes up and realizes that it was not real that he is torn apart. Apollyon doesn't have nightmares, his entire waking existence is a nightmare.

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                    It happens wretchedly often.

       In the dreams, he is not Victor’s creation, but his son. Victor’s green eyes and dark curls have passed down to him; he may glance in the looking glass and smile at what he finds there, for Victor’s beauty is his to share. There are always a warm pair of lips to press against his forehead to chase away whatever fears or sorrows may plague him. When he awakens from nightmares, there is a father there to rest a hand upon his back and assure him that there is nothing of which to be afraid.

         But when he awakens truly, there is no warm touch to comfort him; all that graces his back is the rippling of a frigid breeze from the mouth of whatever miserable cave he has taken refuge in for the night. When he presses a hand to his face, it is against withered skin and sunken cheeks that his fingers tremble. Victor is his creator, not his father; and the Creature is no one’s son but death’s. 

secretsofheavenandearth-deactiv said:

The voice seems a breath of chill, deathly grief. "You still wander, so many years after my death; this, then, finally, is why I cannot rest with my beloved? How... disappointing."

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               That voice—O, God, that wretchedly familiar voice! Whence does it come? how? The man to which it belonged is long dead.

                                      “—Maker?”

My dear friends, I must apologize sincerely for making you wait for replies. My illness is acting up horrifically today; the nausea and pain is making it impossible for me to focus on writing long replies well. I will get to them when I feel able, I promise.

In the meantime, however, small things are appreciated. I will answer asks and short threads as I always do.

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