Pseudonyms
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the novel Dracula, or anything related to it. Except this fic. I had this idea last night, and it intrigued me. I hope you enjoy this – it's my first Dracula fic, so any praise or constructive criticism will be happily received.
Jonathan sat alone in his study, his dark head bent over his manuscript. His hand moved rapidly over the desk as he scribbled, and his face was lit by the glow of many candles around the room.
All of a sudden he stopped, and slumped back in his chair, an expression of great exhaustion coming into his features. At last he was finished.
Shuffling his papers, he came after a while to the top sheet, and after a moment's thought, inked a flowing title at the top of it.
He had done it. He wanted to let the world know his story, he wanted people to be warned of the dangers he had faced and how to deal with them… but most of all, he had needed a way to at last let his memories be at peace. He could relax now. Now, finally, it was definitely all over.
His friends… he realised now that they had understood all along why he was writing this, and he was hugely flattered that they had all lent him parts of a person's most private possession – their diary. Some of the manuscript was his own thoughts, but some parts were from diaries belonging to Seward, Van Helsing, his own sweet Mina, and dear Lucy… he also had much correspondence included in the book, and parts of the Demeter's log, the ship that had brought the Count to Whitby.
He turned once more to the back of the sheaf of papers, and was about to inscribe his name there, when he paused. He could not write his own name there. People would think him mad. And with a sigh, he realised this book could never be published in his own lifetime. He would have to find some way of ensuring it was passed down through the generations, to be published at a much later date. If it were published now… he so badly wanted to let people know the truth, but knew he could not live to see that happen – not if he wanted to spend the remainder of his days considered sane. Perhaps it wouldn't published for another hundred years.
All that remained for him to do, then, was to choose a name. He thought hard, and without warning found his mind drifting back to his childhood. He had been very ill as a child, and his mother had told him stories, to help pass the long boring hours when he was confined to bed. The character in her stories had been named…
Making a quick decision, he wrote the name neatly at the bottom of his manuscript. Two small, unobtrusive words.
Bram Stoker.