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September 17th, 17—

I had thought my narrative complete when the creature departed upon his raft of ice, diminishing into that white and boundless expanse until he was but a speck against the endless pallor of the Arctic wastes. Yet Providence, in her inscrutable wisdom, has granted me one final chapter to record—a chapter which, though it chills my blood to transcribe, must be committed to paper lest my sister believe me mad when at last I return to England's shores.

Three days hence did we continue our southward journey, the men considerably restored in spirits now that the spectre of mutiny had passed and our course turned homeward. The ice had loosened its grip upon our vessel, and though progress remained arduous, we moved steadily through channels of dark water that wound between the frozen monuments of that desolate region. I spent my hours in contemplation of all that had transpired—of Victor Frankenstein's terrible confession, of the daemon born of unholy science, and of the profound questions their existence had awakened within my breast.

It was upon the evening of the third day that young Hopkins, our most keen-eyed sailor, called down from his watch with a voice trembling between fear and bewilderment.

"Captain Walton! There is something upon the ice—a figure, sir, and it moves not!"

My heart, which I had believed hardened against further shocks, commenced a violent palpitation within my chest. I seized my glass and ascended to the deck, where the crew had gathered in uneasy congregation. Through the lens I perceived what Hopkins had descried: a dark form sprawled upon a vast plate of ice some quarter mile distant. Even at such remove, I recognized the terrible proportions, the unnatural limbs extended in attitudes of final exhaustion.

The creature.

"We shall investigate," I announced, though every fibre of my being recoiled from the prospect. The men exchanged glances of profound reluctance, yet none dared contradict their captain. We lowered the small boat and four of us—myself, Hopkins, the surgeon MacTavish, and stalwart Peterson—rowed through the frigid waters toward that dreadful tableau.

As we approached, I perceived that my initial assessment had been correct. The being lay upon its back, those yellow eyes—which had so haunted my dreams since first I beheld them in the cabin where Frankenstein's corpse reposed—now staring sightlessly at the perpetual twilight of the northern sky. The countenance, if such it could be called, bore an expression I had not thought possible upon those hideous features: peace.

MacTavish, whose scientific temperament had drawn him to accompany us despite his terror, knelt beside the form with professional detachment.

"He is dead, Captain," the surgeon pronounced after his examination. "Some hours at least, perhaps longer. The cold preserves, but I should estimate he expired not long after we last observed him departing upon the ice."

"The funeral pile," I murmured, recalling the creature's final declaration. "He spoke of ascending his funeral pile and exulting in the agony of the torturing flames."

"There are no flames here, sir," Hopkins observed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Only the ice. The endless, merciless ice."

I contemplated the scene before me with emotions I found impossible to categorize. Here lay the author of such misery, the destroyer of the Frankenstein lineage, the murderer of innocent William, of dear Clerval, of the gentle Elizabeth. By every measure of justice, I should have felt satisfaction at his demise—relief that such a terror had been removed from the world of men.

Yet as I gazed upon that massive form, I found myself remembering not his crimes but his words—those eloquent, agonized declarations of loneliness that had issued from his lips as he stood over his creator's deathbed. I recalled his account of the blind De Lacey, of his desperate hope for acceptance, of the progressive destruction of his better nature by the relentless persecution of humanity. Was this not, in some terrible sense, as much victim as villain?

"What shall we do with it, Captain?" Peterson inquired, unconsciously employing the pronoun that denied the creature's personhood.

I considered the question at length. To bring the body aboard would invite superstitious terror among the crew—men already strained to the limits of their endurance. Yet to leave it here, exposed to the elements and the eventual curiosity of whatever explorers might follow our path, seemed equally impossible. The world was not prepared to know what Victor Frankenstein had wrought.

"We shall commit him to the deep," I declared at last. "As we would any sailor who perishes far from home."

MacTavish's eyebrows rose in evident surprise. "A Christian burial, Captain? For such a... being?"

"Not Christian, perhaps," I acknowledged. "But humane. Whatever else he was, he possessed a soul capable of suffering—and of reflection upon that suffering. That alone, I think, entitles him to some small dignity in death."

With considerable effort, we maneuvered the enormous form to the edge of the ice plate. I removed from my pocket the small prayer book I carried always upon my person—a gift from you, dear Margaret, given upon my departure—and read aloud such passages as seemed appropriate to the occasion. The men stood in uncomfortable silence, their heads bowed more from habit than conviction.

"We therefore commit his body to the deep," I concluded, adapting the familiar words, "to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the Sea shall give up her dead."

We pushed, and the creature slid from the ice into the black waters below. For a moment he floated, those terrible features just visible beneath the surface, and then slowly, inevitably, he descended into the Arctic depths—into that cold darkness from which no man, nor any creation of man, shall ever return.

The men rowed back to the ship in silence. I remained at the stern, watching the spot where the creature had vanished until it was indistinguishable from the surrounding ice and water. My thoughts turned to Victor Frankenstein, to his warnings and his anguish, and I wondered whether his tormented spirit—if such things persist beyond the grave—might now find some measure of peace knowing that his creation had at last found its ending.

That night, alone in my cabin, I took up my pen to record these events. The candle guttered in the cold draft that found its way through every seam of our vessel, casting dancing shadows upon the walls. I thought of the creature's expressed intention to destroy himself upon a funeral pyre—to let the flames consume him until his remains "would afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would create such another." Perhaps the Arctic deep would serve that same purpose; certainly no natural philosophy could retrieve a body from such unfathomable depths.

And yet, as I write these words, I find myself troubled by a question that permits no easy answer. The creature had spoken of his desire to die, of his intention to seek out the most northern extremity of the globe and there end his miserable existence. But he had also spoken of the necessity of fire—of the complete destruction of his physical form lest another might follow Frankenstein's terrible example.

The sea preserves what fire would destroy.

I shake off such morbid fancies. The creature is dead; of this MacTavish is certain, and I trust his medical judgment. Whatever secrets lay encoded in that unnatural flesh, they are now buried beneath fathoms of frozen water, beyond the reach of any future investigator. The tale of Victor Frankenstein and his daemon shall remain known only to myself and, through these letters, to you, dear Margaret—a cautionary fable of ambition overreaching the bounds of wisdom, of science transgressing against nature, of the terrible consequences that attend the creation of life without the acceptance of responsibility for that creation.

September 19th, 17—

We have made considerable progress southward. The ice continues to relent before us, and the men speak now of home, of families waiting, of warm hearths and English soil. Their spirits have recovered remarkably from the travails of recent weeks, though I notice that none venture to speak of what we witnessed, what we buried in the Arctic waters. Perhaps they believe it all a fever dream induced by cold and privation. I shall not disabuse them of this comfortable fiction.

For myself, I find that my ambitions have undergone a profound transformation. That burning desire for glory which had driven me to these frozen extremities now seems the foolishness of youth, a vanity as dangerous in its way as Frankenstein's own overreaching aspirations. I no longer dream of discovery and renown; I dream only of your face, Margaret, and of the simple contentments of domestic life. Let others seek the pole; I shall seek only peace.

Yet sometimes, in the dark hours before dawn, I wake from dreams I cannot quite recall—dreams in which yellow eyes regard me from the shadows, in which a voice of terrible eloquence asks questions I cannot answer. What is life? What obligations does the creator bear toward the created? Is the abandonment of one's progeny a greater sin than the act of creation itself?

I have no answers, dear sister. I possess only questions, and the profound conviction that some doors, once opened, can never be fully closed again. Victor Frankenstein opened such a door, and though he and his creation have both passed beyond the realm of mortal concern, I cannot shake the feeling that the questions they raised shall haunt humanity long after their names are forgotten.

The creature asked me, in those final moments, to record his tale—to ensure that the world might know not merely what he had done, but what had been done to him. I have honored that request within these letters, though I know not whether any shall believe the account when at last you read it. Perhaps it is better that they do not; perhaps such knowledge is too terrible to bear.

We sail southward, toward warmth, toward home, toward the forgetting that time inevitably brings. But I shall not forget. The creature's final words echo still within my memory: "I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct." So he believed, and so it has proved. His miseries are indeed extinct, quenched by the cold embrace of Arctic waters.

But the misery of knowledge—of knowing what humanity is capable of creating, and of the terrible consequences that attend the abdication of responsibility—this, I fear, shall burn within me until my own dying day.

Your devoted brother,
R. Walton

P.S. I have sealed these letters within the strongest chest I possess, with instructions that they be delivered to you unopened should any mishap befall me before I reach England's shores. Guard them carefully, Margaret. They contain truths that the world may not be ready to receive—and warnings that future generations may desperately need to hear.