@ofbluemuses. / 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑.
even amongst the medical community, victor frankenstein was odd. coming from lewis anwyl, that was saying something. he himself could hardly claim to be the most charismatic or well-liked of london’s anatomical circle, and he certainly had a healthy appreciation for men who proposed daring ideas — but even in his books, there was such a thing as too eccentric. reanimation was not a foreign topic of discussion among medical men, especially at late-night chats when the wine was flowing heavy, but lewis had never met someone who spoke so earnestly and so disturbingly about reviving the dead.
it had been enough to pique lewis’ interest, certainly. at first, he had thought of challenging frankenstein’s theories directly, but he had quickly discarded that idea. one hardly had to be a detective or a doctor to see that the swiss man was plainly unwell: his face was pale and sickly, his eyelids were bruised from lack of sleep, and, judging by the way his clothes hung from his frame, he seemed to have lost weight rather rapidly. what lewis had first took for eccentricity might very well be a sign of a rather unstable mind.
so, instead of addressing frankenstein himself, lewis had resolved to speak with the young man’s friend. the two of them had never been formally introduced, but lewis had observed him in frankenstein’s company often enough, and frankenstein had mentioned his name in passing on multiple occasions. that was enough for lewis. when he next spotted the young fellow waiting outside the hospital for frankenstein, he made his polite approach.
