antropophagi

[antropophagi]

Shout out to characters who want to be used. Shout out to characters who are so desperate to be worth something that they'll endure anything. Shout out to characters who build their entire self worth around being useful, being a tool. Shout out to characters who don't care how they are treated, as long as someone pays them any attention at all

[antropophagi]

For @madnessmaddd! Here it is, finally! I swear I HAVE tried to write fluff but it just mostly ended up being weirdly bittersweet? At least, Warthrop is trying to be nice <3

Grief is a strange, ironic thing. I wish not to mourn the monstrumologist and yet I carry him with me always. His voice rings in my ears as clear as though he were truly speaking; in the darkness, it is his glinting eyes I see. He craved immortality and I have given it to him. However, I wonder sometimes if my reminiscences about the doctor are more biased than I believed them to be, at first. Indeed, the more his presence haunts me, the more I recall the futilities which made him human: the manner in which he drank his tea; the beloved edition of Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads adorning his nightstand; the sharpening of his eyes when they fell upon me, distinguishing something in my face he wished not to see.

I have written once that Pellinore Warthrop cursed me. It is true. I remember now, as I write and write, conjuring up memories of his sharp features and intense, blazing eyes, that he did so while saving me.

–

''This will not do,'' Warthrop said, during my first week with him. He shook his head, studied me again for a moment, then sighed. ''Did your parents not feed you? How old are you?''

''Eleven, sir,'' I muttered, unnerved by the mention of my parents. Daily, I wondered how a man who had been so close to my father could bear to mention him. Did he not feel his insides twist sharply? Did he not wail, at night, muffling the sound with his pillow? Did he not expect, every morning, to see my father's silhouette walking towards the front door, only to be crushed by the sudden realization that Father would never put a foot inside of the house on Harrington Lane ever again?

I looked up at him and saw only his perplexity. A strange man he is, thought I, uneasy, the one who can overcome grief as though it is nothing but an inconvenience.

''Are you sure?''

Was I sure I was eleven? Fairly certain. ''Indeed, sir.''

''This will not do,'' he repeated, now irritated. ''You need clothes but you are entirely too small to wear my old attires.'' Turning away from me, he rummaged in the dresser – we were in the attic in which I had been confined – until he found something he deemed adequate. ''Here, try this. The sleeves will be too long, undoubtedly, but perhaps it will otherwise fit you.''

It did not. The shirt which he had lent me hung awkwardly over my frame, two times too big; it fell over my tighs, brushing against my knees. I wondered how tall the monstrumologist must have been in his adolescence. Did he ever feel betrayed by his body's growth? I did: if I had been stronger, faster, perhaps I would have had a chance to save my parents.

''What are you sulking for, Will Henry?'' The doctor offered me another shirt, which appeared only slightly smaller than the former. ''For the love of God, child, no tears! I have had enough of them for a lifetime. Just try it on, and if it doesn't fit, we will go into town to buy you new ones. That is, if you are not too exhausted from your incessant sobbing.''

I wiped my eyes as he continued to mutter to himself. I caught only a few words – complaints – and when it became clear nothing of his old wardrobe would help, Warthrop let out a heavy sigh. He seemed weary, at once, weary beyond words. I thought, briefly, it was the grief I was so intent on discerning in him, but his following words soon crushed that hope.

''Very well, I suppose we shall have to go into town. There is only one tailor in Jerusalem, Will Henry, and he is the most exasperating man I ever had the displeasure to meet,'' Warthrop said, haphazardly putting back his clothes into the dresser. His tone sounded like an accusation, though I was not familiar enough with the doctor to believe him to be truly accusing me. I had not, of course, lived with him enough, for he was certainly of the petty sort. ''What are you waiting for? Snap to, Will Henry!''

I trotted after him to the stables. There, he didn't bother to saddle two horses; he simply hauled me upon his stallion, instructing me to hold on, for he was not going to stop if I fell. I clung to his waist, closing my eyes – he was going entirely too fast for my liking – until we reached New Jerusalem. His stallion's steps echoed loudly on the cobblestone streets; vaguely familiar faces stood out to me. Tanner, the baker, waved at me, pity in his eyes. I turned away and pressed my face against the monstrumologist's back, swallowing back the overwhelming desire to burst into tears. I, too, was tired of what he had called the incessant sobbing.

''Here we are,'' Warthrop said, jumping down. He tied the reins to a hitching post, helped me dismount and guided me towards the dark facade of a narrow shop. A large, faded board advertised: WHITLOCK'S TAILOR SHOP. Behind the dusty windows, I could see only shadows. For a moment, I was convinced we were about to enter a wizard's realm.

The monstrumologist entered the shop confidently; I followed at a much slower pace, taking in my surroundings. Shadows crawled at my feet from every corner of the austere room. Near the back, rows and rows of clothes hung, a dozen tendrils of mismatched fabric, akin to the tentacles of a particularly large octopus. I am a student in a rather peculiar back-water of the natural philosophies called aberrant biology, the doctor had told me recently. Perhaps it still rattled around in my mind, for I was abruptly forced to consider whether or not my eyes were beholding the shape of a monster.

The clothes shivered, suddently parted to reveal a small man. I berated myself: he, a monster? I was not to embarrass the doctor anymore.

''Ah, Pellinore,'' the man said, whom I took to be the tailor himself, Mr. Whitlock. ''How long has it been? I thought you said you would never come back here again unless God Himself demanded you do so.''

My master smiled thinly. ''And He has indeed. It is an urgent matter. I would not have come otherwise.'' He beckoned me closer, grabbing my shoulder. ''Here is my apprentice, Will Henry. He requires new clothes.''

''Why does a philosopher need an apprentice?'' Mr. Whitlock asked, blinking down at me. Then, with a wry smile, he turned back to the doctor. ''Are you truly so desperate that you need a child to think for yourself?''

I winced upon the tightening of Warthrop's grip. I was beginning to understand why he found Mr. Whitlock exasperating: the man spoke nothing but the raw truth, which was quite unnerving when you loved to ignore it, such as the monstrumologist did.

''As I said, Will Henry needs new clothes,'' Warthrop said evenly. I could almost feel the effort he was making to control himself.

Mr. Whitlock studied me. ''Very well, then. Come here, boy.''

The entire afternoon ran away from us. Every now and then, the tailor turned to Warthrop to ask what he thought of the clothes, each time earning a brisk nod of assent. Had I known the monstrumologist more, I would have been surprised that he remained entirely present and focused on the issue at hand. It seems uncharacteristic to me, now, to remember him, in that obscure room, patient and quiet as I was dressed at his convenience. Perhaps it was where the shadow of his grief truly lay: in that afternoon, nestled between the folds of the clothes I tried, for we were both trying to replace something that had been burned down to ashes.

The new clothes would not appease my grief – nor his – but it was remarkable how relieving it was to finally remove my old clothes, which smelt like smoke and death. I would not carry my parents' death upon me no more; nor, I realized, would I ever get the innocent child back, who had considered his father's work – monstrumology – an adventure. The clean shirts, the tailored trousers, they did not belong to little Willy, but to Will Henry the monstrumologist apprentice. The child I had been had died in the fire. Sometimes, I can still see his shadow in my dreams.

As the sun threatened to disappear over the horizon, we left the tailor's shop, after a thorough argument over the price – which left both men rather unsatisfied. Warthrop helped me mount again, though he let me balance alone the bags of clothes he had purchased. I watched the village disappear, feeling oddly relieved to leave behind a place in which my parents had walked, breathed and loved. There stood the remains of my old house and, akin to a ghost, it called to me when I was in New Jerusalem. The more distance between it and I, the more I could breathe without sensing the never-ending smell of smoke.

''Thank you, sir,'' I said as we left the village.

''For what?''

''The clothes, sir.''

Warthrop's back tensed. After a moment, he said, ''You are my apprentice, now, Will Henry, therefore I shall provide for your needs. In return, as I have already stated, I ask only for your unwavering loyalty.''

''You have it, sir,'' I said quietly, surprising myself.

Would I have answered in the same manner had I known what such loyalty entailed? The events which would disfigure my entire life remained cowering in the shadows of the future, too far away yet to be anticipated. I would sacrifice much to the altar of his science, much more than what a few bags of clothes cost. Yet, even now, ridden with enough nightmares to die from sheer terror, even now, I cannot tell whether the monstrumologist ever lost my loyalty.

We stayed silent for the remainder of the ride.

–

During our first year of cohabitation, upon learning that I did not know how to swim, Warthrop dragged me to a deserted spot of the river running through New Jerusalem. ''It is of utmost importance that you learn,'' he said sharply, staring me down as though my lack of capabilities disappointed him. It most likely did. ''I cannot believe James did not teach you himself.''

I refrained from pointing out my father had not for he was much too occupied assisting the doctor to do so. Instead, I looked at the river's calm current and shivered, despite the warmth of the summer air. The clarity of the water revealed I would not be able to stand, for it was much too deep for my small height. Did the doctor truly expect me to wade in there voluntarily?

''Now,'' Warthrop began, clapping his hands. I was abruptly reminded of my former headmaster, whom my comrades and I had despised. Even the monstrumologist's eyes seemed to harbour that pecular glint all ruthless teachers wear: that of putting their most disliked student in a difficult situation. ''Divest yourself of your clothes, Will Henry. Unless you wish to drown, of course. In which case, you are wasting my time.''

I did not, evidently, wish to drown. It seemed to me an even worse death than that by fire, which I had personally witnessed. Each night, I awoke gasping, suffocated by the recollection of the heavy smoke in my throat. It had burned my eyes, my skin, my lungs. My parents, too. I remembered their screams, their dancing silhouettes in the voracious flames. I could not stand fire, not even in the small hearth of the doctor's library.

However, the thought of going into the water terrified me even more; an exile it was, and I recoiled at the thought of being cut off from the world and its familiar steadiness. What would I hear beneath the water? What would I see and feel? I pictured my body, floating away in the current, untethered; a surge of panic washed over me and I turned to Warthrop, hoping to silently communicate I could not do it.

Unfortunately for me, the monstrumologist, as he was wont to do, ignored me entirely, focused on removing his vest, shirt and shoes, keeping only his trousers. It was the first time I saw him in any state of undress and it struck me, then, how unnaturally thin he truly was. His ribs stretched against his skin, as though trying to break free from the yoke of his body, and old scars caught the glare of the sun, shining dully. One of them I found of particular interest: nestled against his collarbone, it appeared large and slightly pink, a recent bullet wound, I assumed, which would mean my father had been there to see it happen. Had Father bandaged him? Had Father stood over the doctor while he tossed and turned, devoured by fever? Had Father, as he used to do with me, brought a gentle hand upon Warthrop's forehead and whispered comforting words?

His sharp voice brought me back from the dangerous path my thoughts were taking.

''What are you waiting for? Snap to, Will Henry!''

I shifted, uncomfortable, as he stepped into the water. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed, undoubtedly enjoying the water's freshness. Be brave, thought I hysterically, trembling fingers trying to defasten my shirt. You are no child anymore!

Warthrop waited impatiently, black eyes staring at me, so intense I felt a physical weight settle on my shoulders. Perhaps a morsel of humanity he could still feel for he held a hand out for me to take when I walked into the water. His fingers wrapped around mine, steady and warm, and I let him pull me to where he stood, close to the riverbank. Water closed around my ribs; I struggled to breathe evenly, disturbed by the strange feeling of being inside something.

''If you are determined to view this exercise with fear, I am afraid I shall not be able to teach you correctly, Will Henry,'' the doctor said, severe but not unkind. Slowly, he walked backwards, taking me with him. Water rose to my breast, to my collarbone, to my neck; I clung tightly onto him. ''Steady there, Will Henry. Do you truly think I would take you here only to frighten you? Every human being is capable of swimming. It is but a natural instinct.''

''Yes, sir,'' I said, though he had asked no questions.

His lips twitched. ''Steady your nerves. I shall support your weight, but I would rather you not panic, otherwise the situation might become increasingly miserable for the both of us.''

''We would drown?'' I asked, horrified. My eyes left his face to succomb to the abyss' call: beneath my feet, I saw nothing but pebbles. They would be the bed of my tomb, were I to slip.

''Thickheaded child!'' He broke free from my grip to seize me by the armpits. The pebbles underneath my feet disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a grand emptiness. I grabbed the doctor's forearms, swallowing back a whine. Brave, brave! ''See? Neither of us is currently on the verge of drowning. Place your faith in me, Will Henry, if in nothing else. God might not save you, but I shall, to repay the debt I owe James.''

I gritted my teeth, closing my eyes, and tried to dispel my overwhelming sense of dread. The doctor's hands shifted, pulling me closer until I was pressed against his chest. A strange sense of revulsion coursed through me at the touch: in those days, I was so starved of contact that I often mistook longing for disgust.

''Now, Will Henry, listen carefully to me. The trick is in staying afloat and to do so, you need only to push with your arms and legs. It will come to you naturally, I assure you. Any child, even you, is capable of learning so simple a skill.''

And with that, the monstrumologist dropped me into the river.

For a brief second, I felt such an intense feeling of betrayal I lost any sense of fear. I could only stare at him, bewildered, until gravity dug its uncorporeal talons into my body and pulled. Water enclosed me in its arms, simultaneously soothing and merciless; it pressed against me, slithering into my mouth to nestle into my throat. I thrashed and kicked, broke the surface once, coughing and gasping, before the water brought me back in again. In my exertion, I was vaguely aware of a burning in my eyes.

Two hands hauled me up. I clung to the doctor's shoulders, his arms, no doubts scratching him in my haste to escape the water. I was unable to breathe, brought back to the day my parents burned and I could do nothing; water turned to smoke and I heaved, crying.

''There, Will Henry,'' Warthrop said, a touch urgently. I can only conjecture now that he hadn't anticipated such a visceral reaction. He had never been a cruel man on purpose. ''Breathe, breathe.''

''You dropped me!'' I accused between bouts of crying.

''I thought you would use your brain for once and swim,'' he snapped back, strained. His hand, unnervingly gentle, brushed wet strands of hair away from my face. Upon the sight of my tears, Warthrop sighed heavily. ''Well, there is no need for tears, Will Henry. Another try will yield success, I'm certain.''

''No!'' I cried, pressing my face against the bullet wound scar. Father, father, are you here? ''Please, sir, I will do anything you ask. Do not make me do it again.''

''You need to know how to swim, Will Henry. One day, it might make the difference between life or death.''

''I will avoid bodies of water, sir.''

Roughly, he pulled me away from him. ''And what of the day my work requires us to swim, hmm? What then? Shall I carry you upon my back, running the risk of drowning the both of us?''

''Sir-''

''And what if I were drowning myself?'' he asked, eyes blazing. ''Would my own apprentice not save me from death?''

''Of course I would, sir!''

''Then, foolish child, you need to know how to swim.''

I opened my mouth, tried to elaborate some argument that would stun him into silence, but I could find none. He was right. One day, I might find myself in a situation that required swimming skills. Father, himself, had always spoken of teaching me, but he had died before he could fulfill his many promises. Now, all that was left of him was the man standing in front of me, whose hands would not let me drown.

''Here, come where your feet can touch the ground,'' he said, upon seeing me deflate. When I was safely standing, Warthrop moved away, effortlessly floating, it seemed. ''First, I shall show you how it is done. Watch attentively, Will Henry. See how my limbs move? Swimming requires a kind of flexibility of the body: you do not work against the water but alongside it. Do you understand?''

I nodded. Indeed, I was starting to realize the fluid movements of his body were effective and logical. He was pushing with his legs to break the surface and moving his arms in wide circles to remain upright. With a jerk, he invited me to mimick him. Tentatively, still wary, I mirrored him. A brief smile played upon his lips, then he was concentrating again, observing my movements carefully and pointing out my mistakes. Soon, I was able to fight against the lazy current.

My body being much smaller than his, I exerted myself more in order to float. After a moment, upon noticing my exhaustion, the monstrumologist declared it was enough. ''You are as clumsy as an infant, but it will be sufficient for now. Let us hope that we will remain fortunate enough to avoid swimming in the foreseeable future.''

He helped me to the bank where I sat down heavily, struggling to put my clothes back on. I could not refrain my yawns; the doctor laughed to himself when I staggered to my feet, dazed.

''Snap to, Will Henry,'' he said good-naturedly, grabbing my shoulder. ''We still have much to do before the sun sets.'' Another yawn cracked my jaw and he rolled his eyes. ''Well, there is much I have to do. I suppose you have earned a nap.''

''Thank you, sir,'' I muttered.

His hand briefly squeezed my shoulder.

–

I climbed down from my attic to find light coming from the library. Silence reigned in the house and so I hesitated, unwilling to reveal myself to the monstrumologist. My nerves were still frayed from my most recent nightmare – burning, burning, Will, where are you? – and I had no desire to expose myself to one of his eternal lecture. I could clearly imagine what he would say: dreams are only that, Will Henry. Dreams. Conjectures of the mind. Do not let it control you.

I was much too weary to endure it. The only thing I desired was for my exhausted body to be swallowed up whole by a dreamless state of sleep but, alas, Morpheus' tender embrace refused itself to me.

''I know you are hovering, Will Henry. I heard your footsteps. Come here,'' Warthrop said, voice slightly muffled. I cursed internally, pondering how likely he was to forget me if I simply fled the corridor. My hopes were dashed by his demanding tone. ''Snap to, Will Henry!''

I poked my head into the room. ''Can I help you, sir?''

The monstrumologist was curled into his favorite armchair, legs extended before him. In his hands, I spied a book, though the light was too dim for me to decipher its title. Poetry, undoubtedly. The doctor was an avid admirer of poetry. Once, I made the mistake of asking who Whitman was; that day, Warthrop devoted his entire afternoon to teaching me, speaking for so long his voice turned hoarse. I had, since then, carefully avoided the subject.

''Why are you awake so late?'' he asked without raising his eyes from his book.

''I couldn't sleep, sir.''

''Why?''

I hesitated. His eyes snapped to me, unfathomable. ''I had a nightmare, sir,'' I said, relenting to his obtrusive attention.

''About?''

How could he not know? I stared at him, trying to decipher his impassible expression. Had he truly not heard my inarticulated wails? The walls of Harrington Lane were not thin, indeed, however they did not completely muffle any sounds either, especially not those made by a young boy devastated by grief. My throat itched and I knew without seeing a mirror that my red-rimmed eyes betrayed my inner turmoil. How could he not see? Was he truly so heartless that he could not fathom my pain?

''My parents,'' I said coldly.

His attention drifted back to his book. ''Hmm. Do you understand that your grief serves no purpose? You are wallowing in your own misery. Neither James nor Mary would want you in such a state.''

How dare he! The man who did nothing but wallow, expecting me to commiserate with him and his miserable fate, telling me, who had never once complained about the unfair turn of my life, that I should stop grieving my own parents' deaths, brought upon them by his hand! And to invoke their names in a night such as this one, when I could feel the ghost of the fire's touch against my skin, when I could see their consuming bodies, so very clearly in mind's eyes, like a photograph! Oh, Pellinore Warthrop might have been an admirable man, according to my father, but I understood his true nature, that night. He was akin to a rotten fruit: seemingly clean and proper on the outside, but teeming with maggots deep within.

''Is there anything you wish me to do, sir?'' I asked, hoping that he was sufficiently disinterested now to let me go. I could not bear to be in his presence. He sickened me.

''Hmm?'' His eyes landed back on me, distracted. Then, as though he was finally remembering why he had made me come here, he gestured me forward. ''Ah, yes, yes, Will Henry. Come, sit down. Since you are decidedly not sleeping tonight, I think it is of utmost importance that we work on your literary knowledge.''

It was true I had only been living here for a few months but it struck me as wildly uncharacteristic that the monstrumologist would want me to work on anything that was not monstrumology. I eyed him warily before sitting down in the armchair facing his. While the shelves were well furnished, the room itself was sparse: apart from the hearth – which I did my utmost not to look at – the two armchairs were the only furniture adorning the sparse room. Later, the doctor would bring a large table into the room, but, for now, it remained a comfortable space in which one could absorb himself entirely in books.

I could pratically feel my father, sitting down in the same armchair as I, smiling indulgently at the doctor. How many hours had they spent here, reading together? How many hours of Father's life had the monstrumologist taken away from my mother and I?

''Very well,'' Warthrop said, shattering the train of my thoughts. Fire played delightful tricks on his face, alternating light and shadow on his features as he shifted. Only then did I notice the weariness in his eyes. ''Considering that James was a fervent worshiper of litterature, I think it is not unreasonable to presume you know of our greatest writers, hmm? Shakespeare and the likes of him. Right?''

I nodded.

''Good. You have read Dickens?''

''Yes, sir.''

''Milton?''

''My father read me Paradise Lost.''

I was surprised to distinguish a flash of pain in his expression, echoing my own. It was gone in an instant.

''What about your classics? Sophocles, Aristotle, Plato, Euripides?'' he asked quickly, as though wanting to put as much distance between the mention of my father and himself. ''Do you read Latin? Or Greek?''

''I- I do not, sir,'' I said. My Latin was abysmal.

He twisted his mouth in an incomprehensible grimace. Was he disappointed or irritated? ''James said you had a quick mind. I suppose you do not need to read Greek but Latin is fundamental.'' For a long while, he observed me. The fire sparked a strange glint in his eyes; it seemed, absurdly, as though he were going to cry. Instead, he stood abruptly to search for something on the shelves. ''Well, Will Henry, your nightmares might end up being beneficial in some roundabout way. During dull periods of respite, I shall teach you Latin.''

''Sir?''

Grabbing a book from a shelf, Warthrop turned to me. ''You are not to let your nightmares control you. If you do, you shall end up a specter at best. Your life will run past you.'' Quietly, eyes fixed upon the fire, he added, ''The past is past, Will Henry. Whatever lurks there is done. Abandon all your ghosts to look forward. That is the only sensible advice I can give you. The rest, I have not yet learned myself.''

I stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed by the emotion shining in his eyes. Then, again, it was gone and the monstrumologist was back, sharply asking me to recite the first Latin declension. I struggled through half-remembered memories from school, horrified to realize that, beneath the carefully constructed veil, there were not maggots but real, human feelings. Grief, guilt, anger.

Pellinore Warthrop was grieving.

Not only that, for he was trying, in some odd, oblique manner, to help me through my own muddy grief.

''No!'' he exclaimed, shaking his head as he sat back. ''It is rosa, rosa, rosam, Will Henry, not rosas. Rosas is the accusative plural. Did you listen to your teacher or were you too busy thinking of nothing?''

''I am sorry, sir,'' I muttered.

Warthrop sighed. ''Good Lord, Will Henry. If you wish to apologize for every mistake you will make, we will never see the end of it. Let us just go back to the basics.''

During the whole night, the monstrumologist taught me – I write taught, but I think it is an indulgent way to avoid saying he tortured me – the first declension, speaking Latin as easily as English. I had no doubt then that he could choose to talk in Latin for the rest of his life without any difficulties.

Whenever I had a nightmare afterwards – and only if we were not engaged otherwise – I would find him in the library, a Latin textbook on his lap as he waited for our inevitable encounter. Warthrop never asked me if I wished to speak of my parents or of my nightmares; he did not comfort me with soothing words or a gentle touch. It was not in his character, though it was everything I secretly craved.

No, instead, the doctor chided me severely for my awful pronunciation while I tried vainly to cram my brain with words I barely understood.

And in between us, always, stood the ghost of my father.

–

''Will Henry!''

I startled, reflexively snapping shut the pruning shears I was holding. A budding rose fell at my feet and I stared at it, clenching my jaw to swallow back the childish urge to cry. It had taken me weeks to understand what the flowers needed to grow; in a matter of seconds, the doctor had thoroughly managed to destroy part of my efforts. It is just a rose, thought I, reproving myself. There are a dozen more in the garden.

''Will Henreeeeeee!''

Dread rose in my throat; I was still too unfamiliar with his antics to be exasperated by them. I trotted back to the house to find him pacing into the kitchen, holding a pair of scissors in his hand. The blades glinted ominously in the dim light.

''Sir?'' I asked, breathless.

Warthrop whirled around, scissors pointed right at me. ''Where were you?''

''In the garden, sir.''

''Doing what?''

''Tending to the roses, sir, as you've asked me to do.''

''Did I?'' he asked, frowning. ''Ah, yes, I seem to remember something of the sort, indeed. Well, are they prospering?''

''Quite so, sir. I think that, by the end of spring, we will get a beautiful batch of roses.''

''Good, good,'' he said absently. The doctor was pacing again, tapping the scissors against his open palm. I waited obediently; if I left, he would only call me back again and if I asked too much, I would be on the receiving end of one of his infamous lecture again. Finally, Warthrop turned to me, raised the scissors and said, almost reluctantly, ''I have noticed, last night, that you were bothered by the length of your hair.''

Instinctively, I raised a hand to my hair, pulling slightly on their end. By now, they were almost reaching my shoulders and I often had to blow them away from my face, especially when I worked alongside the monstrumologist in the basement. I had no idea he would notice. I had been, so far, convinced that he was much too egotistical to care: only later would I understand Warthrop saw much more than he usually let on.

''I haven't taken the time to tie them yet, sir,'' I said. I wasn't certain that it was what he wanted to hear, for he frowned, puzzled. ''I am sorry, sir. I did not wish to distract you.''

My apology appeared only to perplexe him further. ''No, no, you did not. I was only thinking...'' He stared at me, awkwardly, for what seemed to be an eternity. Then, his eyes narrowed and he shook his head. ''Good Lord, child, you are in urgent need of a trim. Can't you see that?''

I stepped away, shaking my head furiously. My mother had been the one to trim my hair for years. A few days before my parents died, she had promised me she would take the time to cut it for me. I knew, of course, that I could not spend the rest of my life without cutting my hair, but I did not need to do it so soon after the fire. She was there, you see, in the wild appearance of my hair. Everytime they fell upon my forehead or stuck to my clammy skin, it was as though she was touching me: of her, my own mother, I had nothing else left.

''Come here,'' Warthrop said, merciless, as he pulled a chair. He clicked his tongue when I hesitated and waved me over. ''Snap to, Will Henry! I would very much like not to spend all day on this.''

''There is really no need, sir, I-''

''Do not make me ask one more time.''

His demanding tone left me no escape. Slowly, as I imagine a condemned man would walk to his death, I made my way to him, sitting down upon the chair. I fisted my hands upon my lap, staring straight ahead. I am sorry, Mother, thought I, dismayed, as his hands began to comb my hair. I am so sorry. It is not my fault. He is trying to erase you from me until there is nothing left inside, so that I can be his dutiful apprentice.

The first snip of the scissors, near my left ear, startled me so much it surprised him. ''Steady, Will Henry,'' he said, one hand upon my shoulder. ''I am quite dexterous with scissors but it would still be easy to injure you on accident if you keep moving so.''

I clenched my jaw, closed my eyes and waited, in constant agony. His hands moved quickly, never settling, accompanied by the dangerous song of the scissors. Snip, snip, snip. Something squeezed my throat; my eyes burned. There was such gentleness in his hands; he was destroying the last reminder of my mother I still possessed. How could someone fail so utterly at showing kindness?

''I am used to cutting my own hair,'' he said, abruptly, voice gruff. His fingers shifted my head so he could cut the hair behind my ear. ''When I was still a child, my mother did it for me. It is one of the strongest memory of her I can still conjure: her hands around the scissors, her dark eyes glinting, her smile. She liked doing it. Then, she died, and I learned how to do it on my own.''

I tried to imagine him as a child and failed utterly. The coldness he exuded was the antithesis of the inherent innocence and warmth of childhood; I could only see him bitter and weary. What child could grow in a house such as Harrington Lane? A ghost amidst ghosts: there was nothing here but dust and monsters. What was he, the monstrumologist, but a reflection of the place he had grown up in?

''Be thankful, Will Henry, that you do not know how to trim your own hair yet,'' he whispered. One last snip of the scissors and he released me. I stared down at the hair laying at my feet. I was not thankful. ''Well? You must agree it feels much better that way.''

It did. I was not thankful.

''Thank you, sir,'' I muttered, swallowing the lump in my throat.

The monstrumologist patted my shoulder. I could hear the satisfied smile in his voice when he answered. ''You are entirely welcome, Will Henry.''

I went back outside, into the garden. The rose I had accidentally cut lay like a corpse upon the ground; I took it, twirled it between my fingers then threw it away. There was no space in this house for dead things, if not for the monstrumologist's favored specimens.

It did not include my parents.

–

Perhaps, what truly cursed me in the end was not his trying to save me, but my trying to save him. We have doomed each other, the monstrumologist and I, and in dooming ourselves, we have seen the true face of love.

–

The monstrumologist fell prey to illness on the ninth month of our forced cohabitation. I remember the date clearly, though I do not understand why: it only seemed such an astonishing thing to realize the man who had taken me under his wing, the man who had stood tall through grief and loneliness, could, by unfortunate circumstances alone, be reduced to such weakness he could not rise from his bed.

His illness sickened me, shook me to my core; in his feverish dark eyes, I saw not him anymore, but Father, with his hollow cheeks and incoherent rambles. I was now the only caretaker available, both to the man currently laying down upon his bed and the man whom my mind would forever associate with death and worms. Care I did, washing Warthrop with cold water and a sponge, helping him eat the soups I was preparing, holding his hair when he heaved and coughed in my little bucket – in which I, myself, had vomited many times during dissections – and distracting his weary mind when he could neither sleep nor occupy himself.

He did not thank me for my efforts. Perhaps he thought it a natural consequence of our developing relationship; perhaps he thought I had already acquainted myself with illness and therefore did not need to be coddled. Perhaps, and that one is my most fanciful hypothesis, the monstrumologist was simply too vulnerable to express his deep gratefulness. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Even now, after so many years of shared living, I cannot pretend to understand him. It is a shame that, despite myself, I keep trying to.

Upon one memorable occasion, as I was watching over his fretful sleep – during those harrowing days, I slept in his room, curled up on the other side of the bed were he to need my services –, Warthrop awoke suddenly, startling me into action. Before he could even utter words, I was by his side, frantically pouring him a glass of water. My fingers shook; I splashed water on his nightstand and on myself. I do not believe one could begin to understand the deep turmoil I was constantly warring against. If he were to die, I would be completely alone.

''Will Henry,'' he rasped, blinking, clearly dazed. I brushed back a strand of greasy hair, cupped his neck to hold his head and helped him drink. His clammy skin scorched my fingers. How high was his fever? ''Will Henry.''

''I am here, sir.''

His hands clawed out from the sheets, held up in helpless waiting. I took them and he squeezed greedily. I felt the erratic pulsing of his heart, akin to a rabbit's; my own heartbeat stuttered in horror.

''How long have I been ill?'' he asked in a strange tone. I did not know how to interpret it then, but now, I suppose I would have to write down it was fearful. Yes, he was afraid, the monstrumologist! Who was not frightened of death's unfamiliar embrace? Not even his odd fascination with death could prepare him for its absolute inevitability.

''A couple of days, sir.''

''How long exactly?''

His fingers tightened around mine until it hurt. ''Four days, sir,'' I said, sitting down next to him. Immediately, he rolled on his side to face me, his stomach flush against my hip. If any outsider had peeked inside the room then, I believe they would have had trouble deciding which of us was the adult and which was the child. ''How do you feel sir?''

''I am going to die,'' he said, entirely ignoring my question. Perhaps it would have been more comical had he not looked so terribly exhausted. ''It must be consumption. That is how my mother died, Will Henry, and that is how I shall die too.''

''It is not consumption, sir.''

''How can you know? I was under the impression that you were only a child, but perhaps you are also secretly a doctor?''

His sarcastic tone did not faze me. ''No, sir. But Dr. Howard came by, a few days earlier, do you not remember? He said it was just a nasty cold, that it would fade on its own.''

''Fade on its own, pah!'' A weak laugh escaped him, ending in a terrible wheeze. I helped him to sit as he coughed and trembled. His head fell upon my shoulder until I was essentially holding his whole weight, which, thankfully, was not much. For a long time, we remained quiet as he tried to compose himself. ''Will Henry,'' he said finally, ''if I were to die, you would pick up the torch from me, would you not?''

''You will not die, sir,'' I said firmly.

''Will Henry-''

It was too late. I could not endure another loss. ''You cannot die, sir. You have so much work left to do still. We are only on the third Latin declension and you promised me you would take me to the river again to help me improve my swimming skills. You have no right-''

I stopped. Something thrashed in my throat. I tried again. ''You have no right-''

One of his hand cupped the back of my head. ''You have no right to talk to me in this manner,'' he said, although it was not a reprimand. ''Oh, please, Will Henry, spare me your tears.''

I could not. Oh, do not be mistaken. It was not him per se I was crying for. I was a child whose parents had died not a year ago and he was the only person I had left. Without him, what could I hope to expect from the world? Under his guiding hand, the undesired orphan had been transformed into a striving apprentice. If he were to vanish, life itself would reject me.

''You cannot die,'' I sobbed, clinging to him. ''I will do anything you ask. I will never complain and I will never need the bucket anymore. Please, sir. Do not die.''

Was he surprised? Or, perhaps, my little fit satisfied the egotistical part of himself: he had always been afraid of being forgotten. Here I was, implicitly telling him someone would miss him.

Here I am still.

Oh, Warthrop! Can you see me now, old man I am, still complying with your demands? You are not forgotten. No, you are not, though I wish you were. But your dark eyes I see everywhere and your voice lives on in my mind. You have succeeded, Doctor, and I have lost.

''If I die,'' he whispered in my ear, ''you will continue my work.''

I shook my head, not in refusal but in consternation. He would not die. He could not.

''Say it,'' he hissed, slightly pulling my hair until my scalp tingled. ''Promise it, Will Henry.''

To what lengths would we go in order to please our fellows? In order not to be left alone in an indifferent world? I know I would torture, kill and die. I did, for him. In the end, I gave him all I had so he would not leave. And he never did.

''I promise,'' I said. The pressure on my hair vanished. A shuddering sigh shook him. ''I promise.''

We were so close I felt his smile on my neck. ''Good boy. Your father would be proud of you.''

Of that I had no doubt. What could make James Henry prouder than to see his son follow the path he had carved out? Dr. Warthrop is a great man engaged in great business, and I shall never turn my back upon him, though the fires of hell itself arise to contend against me. Well, Father, the fires of hell are scorching now and I never asked for them.

Slowly, I helped him lay down again. The monstrumologist patted the empty space next to him on which I climbed. As was often the case, he softened whenever he obtained what he wanted; he turned to me, a triumphant smile on his lips. The feverish glint in his eyes had not abated one iota.

''Good night, Will Henry,'' he said, closing his eyes.

I answered not, watching him quickly fall back into a restless sleep. We never spoke of that dreadful night until the day I left him. You promised, he yelled at me then, with a desperation he could not mask with his anger, though both warred for dominance in his countenance. You promised you would continue my work!

I have promised. And so I write.

Cursed and saved.

[antropophagi]

Must I, Warthrop? Must I become accustomed to “such things”? And if I had failed—if you had failed to make me accustomed to them—what then? Would there have been room then for sentimentality, for the absurdities of love and pity and hope and every other human thing?

[antropophagi]

Hi! What about your top 5 moments from the Monstrumologist books 👀?

Hi!!!! I thought, and thought, and thought some more about this and surely you must know how hard it is to narrow it down to just 5, but I tried...

Spoilers for folks who haven't read the books under the cut

In no specific order:

Warthrop making the choice to cut Will's finger off, Warthrop dragging Will Henry and Chanler out of the forests, Warthrop and Will Henry reunion in book 3, Will Henry praying in the tunnels in book 1, and Will Henry and Warthrop's convo after Will Henry sneaks out of bed in book 3

[antropophagi]

@madnessmaddd just wanted to let you know I am working on your prompts!! It got out of hand so now I'm writing more than I thought I would lol

Heya Monstrumologist fans! I would really like to stretch my writing muscles and try to engage with the fandom a bit more, so I was considering asking for prompts/ideas to write little ficlets or fanfics :) If you have some things you've always wanted to see explored in the books or if you just really want Will Henry to finally get a hug, hit me up!

[antropophagi]

a little drawing to Spread james and Pellinore propaganda cuz i've been thinking about them a lot...... forgive me... I hate them /pos

[antropophagi]

hehe....

[antropophagi]

for @professionallydeadinside ... Both . The whole push and pull dynamic they had while they were alive is still there 💯💯💯😩😩😩

[antropophagi]

Ahem ahem ahemmmUfgghh uggghhh..... Madz try not to project on Favorite characters level IMPOSSIBLE!!!! gulp anyway . ... happy pride heh

[antropophagi]

the quality sucks ,, my bad... But anyway a little drawing to show what i headcanon or Whatever. Will henry still hearing pellinores voice even after killing him . Ough

[antropophagi]

I'm haunted by the fact the one selfless thing Warthrop does in the books, aka taking Will Henry with him, is ultimately the most cruel thing he could have done to the boy: he wanted to save him so bad he utterly destroyed him

[antropophagi]

mr yancey put me in charge of a monstrumologist video game adaptation + a tv adaptation w/ black warthrop and brown will henry i promise i've thought long and hard about it and it'd rule

[antropophagi]

i did the cruelest thing imaginable to this man and gave him my hair

[antropophagi]

For @professionallydeadinside who requested Will Henry getting a hug! I was working on a WIP when I saw your request, and thought it would fit the bill nicely :)

The dream always begins in the same way.

–

''Will Henry,'' the monstrumologist said, holding me down as I buckled and thrashed, as a scream tore through my throat, ''It is just a dream. Snap to, boy, snap to!''

I opened my eyes; the world's light filled my vision, scorching, so terribly, heavenly bright. I screamed again, or I thought I did, but the sound that came out was feeble, childish, a fawn trying to walk for the first time only to stumble head first onto the ground. The doctor shushed me, applying wet compresses upon my eyes, but even then, even then the pain! Unspeakable pain, as I had never felt, although I had already gone through much in my young life.

''Enough, Will Henry, you will hurt yourself.'' His hand fell upon my forehead, blessingly cool. I pressed my face in his calloused palm; it smelled like blood – mine – and sweat. Indeed, his skin felt clammy. I wondered if he was frightened too. ''There, Will Henry. You are alright. It was a simple dream, a conjuration of your mind.''

''Where-''

''Do not speak. You will need all your strength to recover.''

I did as was bid, relieved that I was not to use my too loud voice. His, I noticed, was kept on a stable level. The monstrumologist knew perfectly well the symptoms affecting me, after all. The Oculus Dei, the augmented hearing, the numbness in my limbs. Did I look as monstruous as Kendall had appeared?

His fingers brushed back my hair. In the gesture, I found a terrible tenderness.

''You will be fine, Will Henry,'' he said. He shifted so I was laying my head on his lap. His hand kept combing my hair. I blessed the fact I could not see his face; I longed only to throw away the compresses and look deep into his eyes, to see to his very soul. ''The antidote will work. Then, you shall be up, as irritatingly dense as ever.''

My hands found his shirt. I pressed my face against his chest, where I could hear the blood rushing through his veins and arteries, where I could listen to the steady shifts of his lungs, to the song of his bones and marrow. I drowned my senses in the stimuli his body provided me: for a blissful second, the outside world ceased to exist and I became a part of Pellinore Warthrop, as integral as Eve had been to Adam.

''Sleep now, Will Henry,'' he ordered, and I did.

–

His father is sitting down at the kitchen. From his eyes fall thin worms, barely visible in the dim light; cursed tears from a doomed soul. He smiles at the boy facing him.

The boy is afraid. He has been in the kitchen for too long.

He cannot escape.

–

''He is doomed, Pellinore. Can't you see? I mean, even your unfathomable optimism must shed its wilful ignorance at one point. His skin is paper-like: we can both see his heart underneath the ribs, the pulsation of it. Do you think the change hasn't spread to his mind yet?''

''John, that is enough.''

''One of us has to face the truth. You claim to love her but you do not seem capable to withstand her presence, her véritable visage. The boy's dead already. Let him go.''

''He is not. He will live.''

''Good heavens.''

A hand grabbed my face. Fingers pressed into my cheeks; something thick and warm bursted out of my skin. A mighty roar and then the hand was gone. Dull pain throbbed in my face.

''Do not touch him!''

''Pellinore, he will be the death of us. Are you willing to sacrifice your life?''

''He will recover and he will live. Do you hear me? Will Henry will live a far longer life than the both of us ever will. He will grow old and he will die a hundred years from now, in his sleep, and certainly not here and now. Do you understand?''

A long silence.

''I think you are the one who does not understand, Pellinore. This fantasy of yours, it can never exist. You have taken him too far. He sees all. Everything you do not wish to see, everything you do not wish to think, is his. You can call it a burden or a gift. Sometimes one is indistinguishable from the other.''

''You are wrong.''

''You must know the line between naïveté and hopefulness is razor thin.''

''It is not naïveté! It is hope, I choose hope, John, something you have forgotten a long time ago. It is not too late for him. I know what I have taken, believe me, I am not so blinded by my egotism as you think me to be. I have taken more than one should take from another soul, and it will forever be my most regretted mistake, but there is still humanity in him. There is still something to save.''

The blessed hand fell upon my forehead. Gently, it wiped the tears of blood from my eyes.

''I will save him as he has saved me.''

His heartbeat, a steadfast rythm. The Earth turned, the stars sung and he held me, the monstrumologist, until I slipped back into a restless sleep.

–

His father leans down and say, Why did you leave me to burn?

Behind him, shadows shift and swell. One of them is the mother's boy. The others, he does not know: he recognizes only their eyes, blue, emerald, grey, glinting in the dark. He has failed them.

The kitchen is standing at the center of the world.

–

Curled upon the ground, I stared at the two silhouettes sitting together. They were talking quietly, a far cry from their earlier conversation. I could hear what they were saying but could not understand it; our languages did not overlap. I spoke in the tongue of the magnificum now. It called for me, upon its peak, whispering, come, my child, come, you have much to do, I will hold you in my breast until we become one.

I craved nothing more than to do so. I cried for it when I was conscious. It disturbed them, I think now, even Kearns, to see such desperation, such monstruous want in a body so small and weak. I could have killed them. I desired it too, if only to assuage the endless hunger torturing me.

It was his voice, as always, which brought me back, again and again.

''Drink, Will Henry.''

''Sleep, Will Henry.''

''Will Henry, I believe you are faring much better than you did yesterday.''

''Hold on, Will Henry. There, much better. Do you feel comfortable?''

''It is dawn now, Will Henry. You would like how beautiful it is.''

''A dream, Will Henry, just a dream.''

''Will Henry.''

''Will Henry.''

''Please, Will Henry.''

A litany of meaningless words, strung together by a feeling he would not dare name. I listened to his voice, although I could not explain why. It was far greater than the thrumming of my newfound instinct to crawl towards the mountain. It was far greater than he and I: the faceless thing, the abundance in the desolation, you are the one thing that keeps me human.

I could have killed them. But I did not.

I only stared.

–

I could not save you, the boy cries.

His father's face twists and changes, bones cracking to reveal the pulsing bodies of the worms beneath his skin. Blood and pus cascade down onto the table.

What I am is what you are inside, his father screams, choked and wet.

–

''Mother, Mother,'' I whispered, eyes open, looking past Warthrop and Kearns, right into the heart of the past. Oculus Dei, the eyes that see all. I could see her, standing near our campfire. Her face seemed wistful, sharpened by the shadows the fire painted on her skin. She looked no older than the last time I had seen her. ''Mother, Mother-''

''Will he ever stop?'' Kearns asked, raising the stone he was playing with as though he wished to throw it on my face. ''Should I suffocate him in his sleep?''

Ignoring him entirely, Warthrop, brows furrowed, leaned directly between me and my mother's apparition. ''Will Henry, are you alright?''

The cold breeze made me shiver: in an effort to reduce my fever, Warthrop had undressed me, leaving me in my undergarments with only a thin blanket to cover my naked skin. A senseless effort, for it was only a matter of time before the magnificum took me. Wasn't that why Mother was here? To help me climb to the mountain's summit?

The stories say that in the final stages the victim experiences moments of intense euphoria, an overwhelming feeling of bliss.

What could be more blissful than the sun rising once again on the horizon, taking in its wake both my parents to bring them back to me?

''Will Henry.'' His hands delicately settled on each of my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. There was a strange fire in his expression, despite the weariness his body betrayed. ''Whatever you are seeing is but a trick of your sickened mind. There is nothing here but us three. Do you understand?''

''Mother-''

''Mary is not here,'' he repeated again, urgently. One of his hand took mine to press it against his throat, where I could feel the erratic pulse of his heart. A purely symbolic motion, given that I heard it always since my taking ill. ''There is only me and you, Will Henry.''

''And me,'' Kearns piped up, playfully.

I shifted, trying to crane my neck to look above the monstrumologist's shoulders. The shadow of my mother settled over us all, an almost physical darkness squeezing us between its outstreched arms. I could almost smell apple pies.

''She's here,'' I slurred, weakly gripping his collar. ''She's here. I need to go to her, sir. Please.''

Her voice carried through the wind, my little Will.

The monstrumologist stared at me for a long while, as though debating with himself on what should be his next course of action. At the very least, that is what my feeble mind thought at the time. Now, I know he was only trying to find me again, underneath the crazed eyes and hollow cheeks. What did he find? What did he see? Simply a lost child, to whom he would later say, I will not suffer you to drown.

''Listen to me, Will Henry,'' he said softly. How soft he had been, then, when he had thought I would not live to see another day! His eyes were open now, and he understood it all: that my unwavering devotion, my father's last gift to him, required an equal sacrifice, the lowering of all his defenses, a nakedness that matched my own. ''You are my apprentice, and as such, you shall do as I say.''

I looked at him, my master, my tormentor, waiting for his orders. A trained dog, who, despite the pain, still knows not to bite the feeding hand. Did the monstrumologist realize how much power he had over me that I would fight against every fiber of my being to be what he needed me to be? I think he did. He must have, for his eyes were shining when he beheld me, when he said, ''You are not allowed to leave me. Not even to find your parents again.''

My mother's specter, behind him, watching quietly; Kearns, on the side, studying us with cold curiosity, as the scientist observes his current specimens; the mountain's summit whence the magnificum gazed at me, waiting; the stars above us, ancient, timeless, casting their unseeing gaze upon us. I saw all. I saw nothing else but him and the anguish in his eyes and the prayer he mouthed when I nodded slightly.

''Good boy,'' he whispered, grimacing his Warthropian smile. His hands squeezed my shoulders, tight enough to hurt.

''I genuinely wonder what you have done to the boy that he would go to such lengths for you,'' Kearns said. He was leaning back on his hands. For once, he seemed entirely serious, his playful manners shed, replaced by the coldness which lay underneath. ''You have done nothing to deserve this, Pellinore. Some misguided loyalty, in memory of his father, perhaps. Or, you have starved him so much that he gobbles up anything you allow him to eat.''

You see, he understood more than he let on, the monstrumologist, for in the face of such unadulterated truth, he said nothing at all.

–

Please, the boy says.

The eyes flicker coldly. His father dissolves into nothing, leaving behind the worms. They slide across the table, towards the boy.

Please, he repeats.

Nobody will come.

–

''You need to eat, Will Henry,'' the monstrumologist said impatiently, waving the morsel of bread in front of my face. A confrontation that had been going on for far too long, which we repeated every day, our own boulder to push up the hill. ''You cannot think of recovering if you do not give your body sustenance.''

I had not the heart to tell him bread would neither sustain me nor satisfy me. What I craved was unattainable, protected by his skin, flesh and ribs, but beating loudly enough that it made me salivate whenever the monstrumologist came too close. His and Kearns', even mine, though the act of plucking it from my own chest repelled me as much as it attracted me. In those days, I knew not whether to feel human or monster.

I turned away, muttering, ''You need sustenance too, sir.''

''I believe I have told you once you were not here to provide for me.''

I am the eyes that see where you do not want to see, I almost said. I am the light you need in dark places. I have gone down to the darkness so you might live in the light. What exactly do you think you are providing?

''You are more important, sir,'' I said, in that obsequious tone he despised so much.

I felt more than I saw his turmoil. It was an almost physical thing, stretching taut the rope between us. Where did the rope wrap around in his body? My end was squeezing my skull ruthlessly, until it ached and throbbed, banishing any coherent thoughts from my mind. Had he wrapped it around his heart, which would explain the way his heart stuttered and whined? Had he tangled it delicately around his throat until he could speak no more? Or around his ribs, cracking them open and making him bleed senselessly?

''It is not true, Will Henry,'' he said quietly, after a moment spent composing himself. ''But I suppose our diverging perceptions on the matter is due to my own fault.'' The bread in his hands disappeared from my line of sight as he twirled it absently. I dared a glance at his face and found it unsurprinsingly somber. ''You do not require it, do you?''

I could not tell if he was speaking of the bread or something else, an abstraction Pellinore Warthrop was so fond of throwing into our conversations, only to later lay the blame on me for derailing the subject.

''You need it more than I do, sir,'' I said. It was only a matter of logic, was it not? ''We are not certain I am going to survive.''

His eyes snapped to me, fierce and dark. ''You are going to live through this, Will Henry.''

He was not trying to reassure me but himself. A self-soothing gesture, for he could not think of losing me. Like a child, I was to put his fears to bed, to acknowledge there was no monsters underneath the bed so he could sleep soundly, unaware that monsters did not simply wait beneath his bed to strike.

How could I think of survival when my body was losing its humanity hour after hour? I heard his heartbeat, and Kearns' who was hunting miles away from us, and the sea's song, and Awaale's voice, surrounded by other voices, and I heard the Earth turning on itself, the stars whirling above us, planets rushing through the emptiness of space. Can you understand what I am trying to say? In a place without sound, I heard their trajectories, as though I had reached the summit of existence, the limits of what one could perceive. One could think of it as a form of super-life, a connection to the whole world, stretching to infinity.

I knew it to be death.

''Eat, sir,'' I said, weakly.

The monstrumologist was still staring at me. ''We shall share then,'' he said, and it sounded like a plea. He broke the piece of bread in two and gave me the bigger one, putting it gently in my numb hands. ''Here, Will Henry.''

Why are you doing this to me, thought I, hysterically, looking down at what seemed as appetizing as a rock. What have I done to deserve such cruelty?

''Eat,'' he whispered, unable, perhaps, to hide the urgency in his tone. Seeing as I did not move, he wrapped his hand around mine and raised the bread to my lips. ''Go on, Will Henry. Snap to.''

I opened my mouth and bit into the bread, earning his approval and a surge of nausea. Mimicking him, I chewed, swallowed, and bit down again, while tears streamed down my face, while my stomach screamed and heaved in protest. The magnificum, on his summit, raged, calling me in its high, ethereal voice, not unlike my master's. But I was a prisoner to Warthrop's unwavering attention: in his dark eyes, I saw my face, gaunt and ashen, and I thought, am I really this?

So many times, the monstrumologist mistook cruelty for kindness. His free hand wiped away my tears, of his own making, while the other, a vice around my wrist, forced me to eat, again and again, until I thought my body would burst open, like those of my brothers and sisters. All the while, he stared at me, strained and frightened, as though he feared I would vanish here and then.

''Good,'' he said when my punishment was over. ''Do you not feel better now that your hunger has been satisfied?''

Poor Warthrop! To live so far in one's fantasies one can not understand the truth of reality anymore! They pitied me, the adults in my life, for living with a man such as the monstrumologist. An old man I find myself now, thinking they should have pitied him: the child stuck in the man, never to see the light of day.

I nodded, despite the agonizing twisting of my stomach. What else could I have done? I was the one thing that kept him human.

–

They are inside of him, now, the worms and the shadows and the eyes. It burns. He dies, again and again, without ever dying.

–

I did not feel the tears until his hands wiped them away. I did not feel fear until he brought me into his arms, and then it was an evil, vicious thing, pulsing achingly in my chest, that he could not soothe for me.

''Please,'' I begged, unable to voice what I craved, for it would shatter me.

I want to eat your heart, thought I, pressing my face into the crook of his neck, where his carotid called to me. The monstrumologist must have sensed it, for his arms tightened around me, a wordless invitation. Go on, Will Henry, he seemed to say, take your share.

''You will be alright, Will Henry,'' he whispered, sounding weary. Those days, he kept tinkering with his gun, sometimes staring down at the barrel for hours on end. I could almost hear the sound of his thoughts, crashing against each other. ''It stands to reason that you would already be dead by now. Or, at least, that your condition would have worsened. It has not.''

''It is too late, sir,'' I said. My lips brushed against his skin. He would not be able to react in time were I to sink my teeth into his flesh. Blood would spring on my tongue, made all the sweeter for it would be his. Blood of Christ. ''I can feel it. It has my face now. It has my soul.''

''It certainly does not.''

''You need to kill me, sir.'' His heart stuttered, a brief, agonizing silence. ''You need to put an end to it before I hurt you.''

A broken sound escaped him. ''Absolutely not, Will Henry. Are you mad?''

''It is you who are mad, sir,'' I said, shifting to look at him. An herculean effort it took me to move away from the blood whooshing through his arteries. I am saving him, I told myself, though I could not remember why I wanted to do so in the first place. Could we not share the gift of the magnificum? Could we not rise to the summit of the Isle of Blood together?

I want to go, Father. Will you take me there, to the Isle of Bliss?

It would free us both. How happy we would be, upon the clouds of bliss!

No, no, thought I, or some distant, buried part of me, he needs to live. He needs to live. I went to the center of world for him. He needs to live.

''If you do not, I will kill you,'' I cried, tears of blood trickling down my face, upon his hands. ''Do not make me do this, sir. I have done so much for you. I have labored in the dark so you might live in the light. You cannot follow me into the abyss. I do not want you there.''

''Will Henry-'' he began, then stopped, choked off. Warthrop pulled me against his chest again, brushing my hair while I listened to the erratic beating of his heart, the object of all my desire, the forbidden fruit in the garden. After a moment, he said, ''I cannot harm you in any way.''

''You have already harmed me,'' I whined, furious. Could he not understand? I was saving his life. ''You have abandoned me, thrown me into the wilderness' grip, cut off my fingers, killed my parents. You have carried me up to lay me down low. It is time to repent, sir, it is time for absolution.''

The magnificum's voice grew louder in my head. Could he not hear it? Could he not feel it vibrate in the air around us, slithering into our chests? Eat his heart, eat his heart, eat his heart-

Warthrop laughed. I was so startled it snapped me back into myself.

''I am a terrible man, Will Henry,'' he said around a bitter smile. ''I am selfish and vain. I care not for repentance or absolution. I will have you hurting if it means you are by my side.''

I was so weary, so terribly struck down by the exhausting weight of my indispensable services. ''Please, sir.''

''No,'' the monstrumologist said, tenderly. ''You will live. You have no other choice.''

–

The shadows do not lift until the voice appears. It is shrill but enticing, almost ethereal. It does not chase away the worms nor the eyes but it does not burn either. It is simply there. Around him.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

–

Kearns' eyes, so close to mine I had to squint in order to see him. Something cold pressed against my throat. I did not need to look down to understand what was happening.

''Ah, my most sincere apologies, Will,'' he said, his warm breath tickling my cheeks. There was a glint of pity in his eyes. ''I wished to do this while you slept. I have no desire to hurt you more than what is necessary.''

I grabbed his wrist. In that brief moment, I heard only the heart in my chest, roaring in fear. Everything else had vanished or, perhaps, everything had simply shrunk down to the point of contact between the blade of his knife and my throat: the whole world reduced to the barely audible scrap the knife produced against my skin.

''Will you fight me, master Henry?'' He was smiling, his familiar Kearns-ish grin. Somehow, ridiculously, the sight of it brought a morsel of comfort to my panicked mind. I relaxed my grip; he raised an eyebrow in surprise. ''Really? Well, that's almost disappointing.''

''Where is Dr. Warthrop?'' I whispered. I dared not shift to look around our camp but I could not hear the doctor.

''Gone to piss somewhere. You know, I almost thought he would do it right here, but a few mocking comments made him flee. Turns out he despises being humiliated more than the idea of leaving you alone with me.''

I closed my eyes, relieved. ''Do it quickly then, sir. Before he comes back.''

''You will not fight it?'' he asked, after a moment, clearly skeptical.

''I am a threat to his well-being.''

Kearns snorted. ''Dear God, you really are just like him. So bloody noble.'' He sighed, then readjusted his grip. ''It is a pity, Will. I truly liked you. You could have become quite the interesting man.''

I heard the monstrumologist before Kearns did. Opening my eyes, I distinguished his shadow walking towards us. I met his gaze across our camp, witnessed the widening of his eyes as he took in the scene before him; never have I seen such fear on the face of a man, let alone the doctor. For a second, frozen, suspended in time, we beheld each other.

It is necessary, I wanted to say. I have done unspeakable things to save you. What is one more sin?

The click of his gun interrupted Kearns' knife.

''Think carefully, John, before you finish what you have started,'' Warthrop said evenly, though I could see the tremor in his fingers. Something surged within me, an overwhelming desire to crawl towards him and nestle at his feet, underneath the cover of his protection.

Kearns stiffened. ''Ah, Pellinore. You know we have no other choice if we wish to survive.''

''If you wish to survive, it is your business, not mine. Get away from Will Henry.''

''I am trying to help you, old chap,'' Kearns said, a touch of irritation coloring his calm tone. ''He won't survive.''

''He will. Get away from him, now.''

From so close, I was privy to Kearns' turmoil. Such seriousness from him disturbed me as much as if the sun were to rise blue the next morning. His eyes, sharp and intense, scrutinized my face, as though looking for the proof of my inhumanity. What he saw, I could not tell. A reflection of his own gaze, perhaps, or the finding of a hollowness that matched his own.

What inhumanity I possessed, he did too.

His hand fell away from my throat, taking the knife with it. ''Do not come crying to me when Will Henry tears out your throat, Pellinore,'' Kearns said, smiling. It was different from his usual grin, colder, angrier. The mask he wore, so close to falling and revealing the monstrous beneath. ''I shall not give either one of you a grave.''

''I don't doubt it,'' Warthrop replied, his gun still aimed at Kearns.

I cannot begin to explain what existed between the two men. For Kearns walked away without having killed me and the monstrumologist let him go unharmed. What bound them together? Esteem? Fear? Disdain? I suppose their relationship was of a similar nature as that of light and darkness, life and death, God and Satan: they existed in contradiction to each other while still gravitating in the same orbit.

As soon as Kearns was out of sight, the monstrumologist deflated, half-dashing, half-stumbling towards me. ''You foolish child,'' he moaned, throwing the gun away to grab my shoulders. I thought he would strike me. Instead, Warthrop stared at me, unblinking, as though trying to carve my image on his pupils. I folded, grabbing his wrists to anchor myself. ''You stupid, stupid boy.''

''I am sorry,'' I muttered.

''Do you remember what I told you in Aden, Will Henry? Not by numbers or force of arms.'' He sezied my left hand and squeezed hard enough that pain bursted into my phantom finger. ''By this... by this.''

I raised my eyes to his anguished face. ''I am sorry,'' I repeated, choked. Tears stung my eyes. The adrenaline, which had carried me forward since I awoke to Kearns' knife on my throat, finally faded away, leaving me trembling. ''I am frightened, sir.''

Only a few weeks ago, I had thought this particular admission would have sent him fleeing, far away from me. Now, I knew, I saw – and not with the Occulus Dei, but with the eyes that had beheld him, once, carrying his only friend across the wilderness – that he could no more leave me than I could leave him.

His face softened. ''I remember telling you once our enemy is fear, Will Henry. It poisons the mind and consumes the truth. Hard facts and logic are warped by our fears. It is not the truth we contemplate when we are afraid, but the hideous face of fear itself.'' Gently, he dislodged my grip on his wrists. ''Be not afraid, Will Henry, of what you perceive is the truth, for it is but a grotesque disguise. Your condition is stable.''

''Is it?'' I asked, looking for the truth in his eyes.

''Lying is the worst kind of buffoonery, is it not?''

I nodded. Warthrop helped me lay down. Flat on my back, I looked up at the twinkling stars, listening to their wordless melody. Would I forever remain in this condition? Half-transformed, able to see and hear everything?

Half-monster, half-human, thought I, pressing a hand against my heart. An unclean boy. If I die now, will God scorns me before the pearly gates of Heaven?

As though he could hear my thoughts, the doctor said, ''I am certain we will soon see your state improve in the following days. For now, you require rest, Will Henry.'' I rolled upon my side so he could be in my field of vision. ''Do not worry about Kearns. I know now what you two are capable of if left to your own devices. I shall not let him come near you.''

''I will not escape a proper chiding, sir, will I?'' I asked, yawning.

''No, Will Henry,'' he said severely, although I thought I could hear a smile in his voice. ''Once you are back on your feet, you shall be properly scolded.''

I closed my eyes. Softly, his hand brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

–

To the voice, the boy asks, Will you help me leave?

For a moment, he hears nothing but ringing silence. Perhaps he is simply doomed to remain here, in the burning kitchen.

I carry too many shadows to help you, the voice says. It echoes mightily around the room. A voice to protect, a voice to hurt. It will hurt more than it will protect.

The boy raises his hands, says, I do not care for anything would be better than this room.

The door opens. Behind, a suffocating darkness.

I am sorry, the voice says sadly, but you can carry the shadows while I cannot.

The boy hesitates on the doorway, asks, Will it hurt?

Yes.

I am tired of being alone in this burning kitchen.

I know.

Will you help me?

I will not. But I will be here with you until the very end.

The boy looks back one last time. Then, eyes open, he walks out.

[antropophagi]

dude are we getting a monstrumologist renaissance

[antropophagi]

For @professionallydeadinside Hiiii Yes.. Kearns is one of my favorites but i don't draw him enough ... I allllssoo feel like malachi should've been kept around cuz i like his and kearns little dynamic . Would've been fun but whatever im not the author.... Aaannnddd yeah . Malachi and will henry were so awesome and they should've ran away and became cowboys gosh darn it. Gaaahhhhh.... Sorry i drew kearns freaked out to the max I love him dearly

[antropophagi]

Hii guys,, thank you @antropophagi for the drawing ideas Hehe.... Ur writing is goated btw.. Sorry again if these r kinda ehhhh But anyways, The wilderness scenes hurt my heart a little cuz. Pellinore cares but he's kinda a moron sometimes . If i were will henry, id be pretty pissed at pellinore too, considering pellinore was basically saying 'i swear to god i'm wanna slit ur throat you blasted useless fool' . Ouch.. Alllssoo i have no idea how photos work on tumblr so i hope it looks fine . Yaaay.. Ps. I like making chanler gray asf. Will henry's like 'we're really trying to save this guy?....' when he looks like a complete skeleton already PPS I FORGOT To draw will henry punching pellinore but i'll do that lateerr heheeeee