Not my native language, I have to remind you - I may get through with it in short comments, but I have not written anything longer in English since English classes at school. And of course I cannot actually write an origin story ignoring the greatest story ever that created the name, so - I start from the end of the novel... ;) (And I agree with Drillpress, that was fun, thanks to the House of Hatrack)
The years went by in the icy cold of his self chosen hiding place in the Arctic. The metabolism of his artificiality reanimated body had slowed down, after he sat down into a cave of ice until anyone how would have found him would have taken him for dead. Again. Inside his head, dreams flashed by, horrendous images of ice, fire, ropes, lakes. Interrupted by pictures of beauty - the little girl, the blind man who had given him the only acts of kindness he ever experienced. He had no concept of the time as it flew by, but one day - everyone he ever met was long dead and even his story that had survived them and was believed to be fiction had faded from memory - a crack in the ice above his head grew bigger and the cave around him collapsed. Mere mortals would have died under the falling ice, but his body persisted, buried under the cold, until that too melted away like all of the ice around him. Earth had gotten warmer and freed him from his icy retreat, the solid desert of white around him had melted and he floated away on a small floe, until it was washed ashore, far away from the lands where his father had created him. When the warm water washed around him, his heartbeat came back, his dreams became more vivid and finally - he awoke.
He sat up on this shore, looking around. Amazed. Astonished. Buildings he saw, huge as mountains - he figured they must have taken years and decades to erect - but they lay uninhabited, leaning, in ruins. How long had he been gone?
He got to his feet and slowly entered the deserted city. Gathering more courage with every step - he had no reason to seek human companionship, for him hardly any time had gone by since mankind drove him away with madness and anger. Yet he found no humans in this huge city, anyway, only ruins, grown over by plants that took back what had been theirs centuries ago.
Until, finally - he heard a sound. Alert, he turned around, to see - humans. Even smaller than he remembered them - smaller than father has been, for sure. Dressed in rags and self made, primitive clothes. These were not the ones who build these miraculous houses anymore. Whatever happened, these were the remains of mankind. Afraid of him - he was used to that, but - in another way. They clearly had no idea who this being was, that towered over all of them... He gathered his courage and spoke to them in the language he had learned from his father, his books and the blind man. No sign of understanding. He drew letters in the soil at his feet - not a sign of understanding. Even if they did not know the language, they should recognize letters, should they not? Was he the last one who could read in this wasteland? He hesitated. Should he - teach them? More than just reading - tell them what he experienced in his short life. He sighed...
"Ich bin..." He hesitated. He had never had a name. If he intends to live with these people - if they let him - he would need one. His father's? Should he grant him that honor after he had suffered so much because of him? He had regretted in the end, so - maybe. But not quite.
"Ich bin Frank. Stein." He wrote his name into the soil and then smiled when he added another letter between those two names. Maybe his father would have liked that.....