Lighthouse Observatory

In Search of Love and Death

A Frankenstein - GDT fanfic

The climate shaped one’s spirit in obscure ways, and the light and openness of the land uplifted his spirits in ways he found rare and infrequent.

He had been walking for weeks, and in this sunshine, he could see a small caravan in the distance. Anticipating contact, he secured the ivory mask on his face. If not for this mask, he would have been stopped, stared at, or hunted. The mask, the gloves, and the cowl, too. It was a simple mask, really. Two meticulously cut holes for eyes, an outline of a nose, and thin lips. It was something he picked up––stolen, really––from a Venetian craftsman. 

As the caravan grew in size against the horizon, he wondered if he would have to run, hide, or fight for his path. He couldn’t die, but he insisted on not being slowed down; he was hasty to get to Damascus. It was rumored that there was a blind scientist in the city, an expert on the Lymphatic system. If by some miracle this rumor is true, he may be able to find death.

He had chosen a name for himself––Adam––and he was sure the scientist would not reject him. A name gave him personhood, and without eyes to perceive and judge him, he would be safe.

The caravan came closer still, and he steeled his nerves. The horseman called out in a foreign tongue. The Creature recognized the words “who” and “where.” From behind the mask, Adam responded, “Travel. Damascus.”

“Foreigner,” the man said in a familiar language. “We are headed there as well. Would you like passage?”

Instinctively, he declined.

“Suit yourself,” the horseman said. “God give you safe travels,” he called out before hastening the horses.

A trek of three days brought him to the great gates of the city. He paused, partly because of exhaustion, and partly to absorb the grandeur and awe of these structures. The gate was far from the gothic, sprawling buildings of Vienna, Florence, and Venice. It was organic, yet organized, tall yet humble. He stepped through the gates and entered a bustling street. Markets and stands stood beneath a hooded structure. The scent of cardamom, coffee, and perfumes filled the air. Sugar and sweets, clothes and woodworkings surrounded his vision as far as he looked. People, people everywhere. He was exhilarated and afraid.

As he lumbered through the paved streets, people politely gawked at his length and stature, some whispering something that sounded like a prayer, and others avoided him. He kept walking forward, unsure where he was heading, until he heard a familiar voice. It was the horseman, and next to him was a woman with a cane. The two were passing banters between each other. As Adam followed them, he picked up the words, “no participants, no license.” The woman responded, rhythmically tapping her cane on the street, “Will find, Salim.”

The man, Salim perhaps, appeared exacerbated, “Fajr, please.”

The woman waved him off and said, “Home.”

“Alone?”

The rest, Adam could only guess. He was drawn to her, and he knew exactly why. Securing the mask against his face, he followed her quietly, admiring her every step and murmur to herself.

The two came to an alley paved with cobblestone. He stood a distance away from her as she approached a large wooden door under an archway. She fumbled with the keys to the door, but paused. Peeking from behind a wall, he could see a small grin on her face even from afar.

“You just going to stand there or help me open the door, young man?” she finally said in a language he could understand.

Adam was stunned. He turned and surveyed the area around him. It was just the two of them now.

“Yes, you,” she said again.

He stepped forward, approaching with caution, as she presented him with the keys. Hesitantly, he placed the key into the lock and turned the key.

“You sound familiar,” she said.

Standing underneath the doorway, he responded, “traveler.”

The woman reached for a chair, checking to make sure it was still where she had placed it, and sat down. She beckoned him inside.

He entered, lowering his head as he stepped in. Mustering courage, he asked, “I overheard you talking about participants for a scientific study. I would like to be a participant.”

She seemed to consider his words, then chuckled, “Salim will be dumbfounded. What’s your name, young man?”

Rarely has he ever been asked that question. Swallowing thickly, he fumbled, “Adam.”

“Adam,” she repeated. “I’m Fajr. Do you have a place to stay?”

He shook his head, “No.”

The woman hummed thoughtfully. “You can stay with me. It would perhaps assure Salim, and perhaps quiet his worried mind and mouth,” she chuckled again.

He approached her slowly and knelt, “Does that make us friends?”

She reached a hand out, and he directed his head to her. When her fingers met his hair, a small smile escaped his lips.

“Yes, Adam,” she said. “That makes us friends. Make yourself at home.”

Salim was not one to offer a boisterous entrance, but upon entering Fajr’s humble abode, he exclaimed with astonishment, “Fajr! What did I say about surprise visitors?”

“Calm yourself, Salim,” she said, gesturing for Adam to come closer. “Adam, here is a friend. He has expressed his interest and goodwill for our study.”

Salim’s words froze on his tongue for a moment. Adam broke the silence, stating, “I wish to be a participant in your research on the Lymphatic system.”

The man wrung his hands together and cast a long glance at Adam before muttering, “Very well. We’ll have to head back into town for the license and…Adam’s consent before we can begin.”

The walk to the heart of the old city was rich with new colors, sounds, and sensations. It was all fresh, different, delightful, and overwhelming in equal measures. There was a certain music in the townfolks’ trade and banter. Someone in the distance began singing, and it pleasantly startled Adam for a moment. Salim and Fajr whispered something in a moment.

Curiosity fluttered in his heart at the rhythmic music, the warmth in its unrecognizable words. It was inviting, soothing, and Adam closed his eyes, absorbing the music that surrounded his being. He asked, sheepishly, “What is that music?”

“The adthan,” Fajr responded, “that is our call to prayer. Do you pray, Adam?”

He threw his gaze to the ground. He hasn’t tried to pray in a long five years. Prayer was something he had long cast aside. Who and what would he pray to? Only mortals prayed to Gods. Perhaps he would pray when he could taste mortality. “No,” he answered Fajr quietly, “but I would like to.”

“Then I can teach you,” Fajr said.

Salim cleared his throat and interjected, “I must head to prayer after obtaining the license. Will you be all right on your own?” Salim addressed her, who nodded and gestured with her cane to Adam.

“I’m not on my own,” Fajr said. “Adam is here.”

That made him smile behind the mask.

“Very well,” Salim said as they approached another archway that led into a cavernous atrium.

It was cooler inside as he stepped inside. A fountain warbled in the middle of the structure. Adam beamed as a flock of pigeons flew across the building’s high dome and swept down to bathe and drink.

Licensure was quick and easy. He let Fajr and Salim do the talking. All he had to do was sign the consent papers. He did not know this land’s tongue, so he resorted to writing in the language that he knew and assumed Fajr informed the man behind the counter.

“Sign here,” the man behind the counter pointed, “your full name, please, sir.”

Exhaling heavily, he signed his name:

Adam Frankenstein

The entrance to the home opened into a courtyard. At its heart was a small gurgling fountain, leaves and flowers floating lazily within it. Adam found the house’s design peculiar, beautiful, and efficient. The open courtyard was surrounded by three walls, which led to different rooms, each with its own purpose.

Adam and Fajr spent their time between keen research and humble tasks; cooking, gathering fruits from a fig tree between rooms, and purchasing goods from the local markets. With a brief life span in this little world, Adam found a moment of peace, however fleeting.

He took care, however, to never take off his mask outside of the home, and although he knew Fajr couldn’t see him, he kept his gloves on during their research.

“What do you hope this science would help you with, Adam?” Fajr said, reaching for a flask that Adam handed her. It contained a pale-blue concoction they had been developing for two weeks. According to their studies, this would allow them to gain some semblance of control over the Lymphatic system to, hypothetically, target its action.

There were no words to explain his condition. Only a narrative, or perhaps poetry, could capture Adam’s story. He simply said, “A strange condition.”

“A little secretive, are we?” Fajr said. She ground some dried leaves and put them into the flask.

With a trembling hand, he silently led her hand to the mask on his face. Silently, she nodded in understanding. He knew that the truth of his condition evaded her.

“Would it help your sight?” He asked, changing the subject.

“That’s the hope,” she said. “And it would many others. Perhaps even folks with your strange condition, friend.”

He doubted that there was anyone out there in the world with his condition, but he nodded and gave a small hum of affirmation. “What are these?”

“Promotes healing. Especially ocular tissue. If this potion works, it would help target and accelerate healing.”

Calculating his next words, he asked, “Is there an herb that will stop healing?”

There was a pause, and Adam feared he had asked the wrong question. But her features changed from deep thought to wonder.

“Why, yes, Adam,” she finally said, “That might be helpful for certain conditions. You are quite the clever scientist. You’ll have to head to the market and purchase some of this herb. I will teach you the language in time.” She winked.

Smiling again, he resumed his work avidly.

Day and night, he worked on their potion and never missed a single dose. As summer turned into autumn, as green, purple, and white turned to orange, yellow, and red, Adam had learned more than just the workings of the potion; he could speak Fajr’s language to some degree.

One morning, on his way out to the market, he caught a glimpse of himself in the fountain’s distorted waters. Carefully removing his mask for a moment, he gazed at his reflection. This was the face of Adam Frankenstein, a face that he swore none would see. Images and memories came flooding back into his mind: fire, ice, blood and kindness; rage, revenge, and redemption. By habit, Adam tossed his hand across the water’s surface, further distorting his image. When he heard Fajr awaken in her chamber, he hurried to fix the mask and don the gloves again.

Fajr instructed him to bring back home a selection of herbs and spices, and emphasized a specific flower, which Adam took care to memorize its pronunciation. She had a peculiar secrecy to her methods, which Adam was still not used to.

By the time the noon call to prayer began, Adam made his way back to Fajr’s home. She greeted him at the door and thanked him for procuring the herbs and flowers. He presented them to her gently and asked, “Will these be for the concoction?”

“No, my dear,” she responded. “These will be coming with us to the cemetery.”

“The cemetery?” Adam asked.

“Yes, Adam. I must pay a visit to lost loved ones. Will you be joining me?”

To be deathless and among the dead. That was the predicament that he had set out to resolve seven years ago. Breathing deeply, he nodded and agreed to join her.

Adam found beauty in the incisive winter air and the shivering branches of trees. With foliage gone for the season, nature’s design lay bare. The skeletal form of the earth and world gave him some sort of comfort. Perhaps it reminded him of the solace of death.

Fajr walked a specific path that led them to three marked graves. Fajr reached a hand to Adam, and he presented her with the flowers. Assuredly, she placed them upon the graves and knelt, opened her palms, and read a prayer.

Adam felt compelled to pray, although he still did not know how to pray or to whom. The only substance he could string to prayer was names. The names Victor and Elizabeth escaped his lips like a secret.

“Today is the anniversary of my brother’s death,” Fajr whispered. “I come here every year, honor him, and our parents.” She turned to face him. “Who’s Elizabeth?”

Kneeling beside her, Adam answered, “A friend.”

“And Victor?”

“...My father,” he whispered, the words coming out broken on his tongue.

“Yarhamuhom Allah,” Fajr said.

Upon hearing those words, doused in the winter wind, Adam felt a strong tug in this cemetery. Almost like the earth was beckoning him. He could hear familiar voices in his mind, long-buried moments and memories returning in a flash of green, red, and white.

“Adam,” Fajr’s voice brought him back from an onslaught of memories, “Thank you for coming with me here.”

Smiling beneath his mask, Adam brought her hand to his head and patted his hair, “Thank you,” he muttered.

Night had cast her long veil on the city, and most were asleep. He left his chambers, quietly making his way to the fountain. Fajr was asleep, and it was still at least three hours before the dawn call to prayer. Anxiety gnawed at him. He wanted to know if this concoction really worked, and if it did, how long it would take. It had been nearly a year, and Fajr had not yet found progress with her healing, although she remained patient. Adam’s patience, however, was running thin.

In the pale moonlight that cast strange shadows in the courtyard, he caught sight of himself in the fountain again. Unfastening his mask, he sat on the fountain ledge. His eyes studied the space that he had called home for a year now. Winter was waning, and the night air carried a humidity that heralded spring in these lands. Renewal, rebirth, regeneration. His eternal bane.

His eyes finally landed on a knife that he had used to open a pomegranate the day before, and an insidious idea flitted in his head. He had to find out. Grasping the knife with purpose, he cut his palm. Crimson red blossomed on his open skin, the sting and pain momentarily quelling his racing thoughts.

Glass shattered behind him, and he turned, startled, to find Fajr standing before a broken cup. “Adam, what are you doing?”

Horrified, he clamored to wear his mask. Stepping clumsily around the broken glass, she approached him and held his hands. He sat frozen, wishing to push her away and sink into her embrace at once. With caution in her every move, her hand moved to his gloves and took them off. Her eyes and brow tightened with wonder, curiosity, and empathy.

Shakily, Adam asked, “You can see me?”

“Only shadows of you,” she said, “but, yes.”

Flipping his hands gently, she then turned to face him. She needn’t speak a word, because her eyes communicated the question for Adam just as easily.

He consented for her to remove his mask on one condition. “Hear my story first, then I will take off the mask,” he declared.

Fajr settled back, her face keen with rapt attention as Adam shared his narrative. Although abbreviated, his story drew a tear from Fajr’s healing eyes. With the declaration of faith on her lips, she took his mask off, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I am now sure why God merged our paths.”

“Why?” Adam asked, the word tight in his throat.

“So that we may heal each other.”

Steeling himself, he looked back at his palm. The wound didn’t heal. Tears trailed down his cheek as blood trailed down his skin. The sensation broadened his smile.

my contribution to GDT's Frankenstein 2025

A gift for my Davy Jones and Calypso loving friends 🤟

In case it isn't already clear, this is an homage to Klimt.

Also putting my sketch below the cut because I thought it was perty too:

Four years of ferrying those who died at sea, and the captain of the Flying Dutchman still hasn’t gotten used to this macabre voyage.

As Bill Turner manned the helm, William watched as souls climbed aboard the Dutchman, their wraith hands grasping onto her barnacled wood like claws. Souls would roam, some would ask questions, others knew the stories, and some stood at the railing, watching as they made their voyage to the afterlife. It was a long and otherwise boring voyage. There was not much to see through the endless stretch of souls who died at sea.

Nonetheless, Will joined his father and rested his elbows on the port railing, looking out into the eternal waters of the in-between.

“You’ll get used to it one day, William,” Bill Turner muttered in his son’s direction.

“How long will it take, I wonder?” Will questioned. He cast a glance at his father and quipped, “You’d think I would be a natural at this, being the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner.”

Bill chuckled. “Everything takes time, son. And we have an eternity.”

William nodded and turned to face the Dutchman’s deck. His father was always full of prickly wisdom.

He turned to the open deck of the Dutchman. It swam with souls, yet it retained a certain quiet and serenity. William used to bid hello to every soul boarding the Dutchman, take in every soul’s condition, age, and stature. Not anymore. All souls were the same. To William, every soul was equal to another.

But one soul caught his eye, drawing William by a sheer sense of familiarity. Tension knotted his brow, and he wondered who of his loved ones he would be ferrying. As if I have any loved ones beyond Elizabeth, William thought.

As he neared the port ladder, he saw that, clamoring onto the deck of the Dutchman, was none other than Commodore James Norrington. Wig askew, uniform disheveled, and chest gaping with a long, red streak where his heart once was beating.

William gave the Commodore space to orient himself and become familiar with the finality of things. Clearly, Norrington was facing a difficult time at that.

Norrington slowly spun around, taking in his surroundings, the sound of chattering souls, the cool mist that hung above the eternal waters––and the familiar faces that stood behind him. 

In a flash, the Commodore lunged at the captain of the Duchman, aiming to grapple and charge him to the deck. But the poor soul fazed through the captain, and Norrington fell sprawling on the deck of the Flying Dutchman, a grunt escaping him as his shoulder impacted the ship’s hull.

Bill descended the stairs, leisure and amusement in his every step. “Not bad for a lost soul who faced Jones with nothing but the sword that killed the Dutchman’s successor.” He extended a hand to James, who was turning on one elbow.

“Get away from me, pirate,” James growled, distancing himself from Bill Turner.

Bootstrap shrugged and turned away. “The least I can do for you,” he said. “But looks like you’re no man to accept goodwill from pirates.”

James collected himself and stood warily.

“Commodore,” William greeted James cordially.

“Turner,” James said, breathless. Gazing around, he asked, “Are you dead, too?”

William stepped closer to Norrington, shaking his head. “Yes and no.” James’ confusion beckoned William to elaborate. “I’m captain of the Flying Dutchman, now.”

“So it was actually you who felled Jones in the end,” James muttered.

William sauntered to the stairs, making his way to the helm. “You seem surprised,” he called out over his shoulder.

“Hardly,” James responded. “If Jones were to die, it should have been by your hands.”

Bootstrap cast an amused glance at his son before he busied himself with shipwork.

“Ferrying souls to the afterlife. I’m sure Elizabeth must be proud seeing you come home every night,” James jeered.

Silence stretched between them as William thought on his next words. He was the captain of the Flying Dutchman, and whatever words left his mouth would have no consequences. But he was still an honorable man, and he couldn’t lie to the Commodore, not before his passage to the afterlife. He fixed his gaze on the endless horizon and addressed James, “Cannot step foot on land but once every ten years. That’s my curse as captain of the Flying Dutchman. Or perhaps you already knew that, Commodore?”

James’ head snapped to the captain of the Dutchman, his eyes incredulous and his lips parted with heavy words. He swallowed and said, “I suppose we’re both doomed to be tantalizingly close to her, but never close enough. How long has it been?” He asked finally.

“Four years,” William returned.

James cast his gaze down, appearing crestfallen, or perhaps ashamed. He stood still, like a statue aboard a ghost ship. William left him there, standing, thinking, and watched as the Commodore took off his wig and wrung it in his hands. James stumbled over the railing and gazed out into the eternally stretching waters and souls of those who chose the sea. Blinking slowly, wringing the wig in his hands.

“What has become of Elizabeth?” He asked. He wasn’t sure the captain heard him.

“She’s safe,” the captain responded. “Beckett’s gone. We ambushed him.”

“Good.” The word left James’ mouth before he could think of it. “I chose my side.” He gave the wig one last glare before he came to throw it overboard. He stopped himself and turned to face William for the captain’s permission.

“Do as you please,” William affirmed. “The waters are an illusion, anyway.”

James threw the wig overboard, releasing a breath of relief. “Where are we going?” He asked, keeping his gaze out to the waters.

“To the gateway,” Bootstrap responded. James turned to face him, amicably beckoning him to elaborate. “To the next life. You’ll have to see it with your own eyes. It’s beautiful.” He turned to face William at the helm before adding, “Many a soul whispers a prayer before they step into it. It’s a privilege for any pirate to see.”

“A privilege to be ferried by he who showed care and respect in every aspect of his life,” James said over his shoulder to the captain.

Though he was not conscious of it first, a sensation of relief passed over where William’s heart was. He nodded a smile to Norrington. Quietly, he sailed his course, watching as James gazed out into the open waters where souls drifted and climbed aboard.

James wondered how many souls the Dutchman could carry at once; how many voyages back and forth the Dutchman had to make; did William get any time away from this dreadful and hefty job? All manner of thoughts drifted in his mind, but he felt no connection to them. He was aboard the Flying Dutchman, being ferried to the afterlife. Nothing else mattered. Perhaps, not even Elizabeth. He caught himself thinking that uncharacteristic thought and remembered who Elizabeth was: she was a pirate.

“Say, Turner,” James turned and called out to William, “Did you happen to get married?”

William grinned, “Aye. Married mid-battle with the Dutchman. Barbossa married us, too.”

James cackled, spreading mirth and lightheartedness across the dreary atmosphere. “What a wedding it must have been. Would have loved to see it.”

Time was a fable in this liminal space, and in the blink of an eye, or perhaps the swath of an eternity, a low, and distant gushing sound heralded the gateway.

Bill Turner joined James Norrington at the railing and said, “We’re here.”

James and many of the souls aboard the Dutchman turned to face the source of the booming sound. As the Dutchman drew nearer, James could make out the form of a lofty waterfall, stretching immortally on either side.

It was a lofty waterfall, of which one could see no beginning. Water crashed against water in a display of awe and tranquility. Tears made it behind Norrington’s eyes. “Is that it, then?” he asked, his voice coming out broken and shaky.

William stepped to him, whispering, “Aye. This is it.”

Souls made it into longboats, and Norrington hesitated to join them.

“You can’t stay here forever, mate,” William said behind a grin. “Many have tried.”

Norrington still didn’t move. He merely gazed at the waterfall, taking in the gateway's grandeur and splendor.

“I could take the ship down into the waters if you please,” William playfully threatened.

Norrington faced William, finally whispering, “There’s no need for that.” He made his way and stepped into the longboat among his fellow departed souls.

The sheer force of the fall’s water should have crushed the boats, but they glided through, peacefully unharmed. James stood up on his feet as his boat approached the gateway. Water crashed on him. A smile made its way onto his lips as the waters bathed him, disintegrating his soul and reintegrating it with the eternity of the fall.

I can’t believe this is happening or that i did it