Mina's Story
by DarkMark
2 September, 19
My dearest Elizabeth,
You have wondered about my past history. Not, of course, that which Mr. Stoker patched together from my and Jonathan's journals, the accounts (even wax cylinder transcriptions) of Dr. Seward and the others in our band, but that which came afterward. I believe you wished to know how I went from the state described in the volume Stoker edited to the one in which you found me. Of course, Elizabeth, you have not said as much, verbally. But I can tell. Curiosity is not your most concealed trait.
I find it easiest to speak of such matters in writing. Alas, that may expose me to revelation of the most deadly sort, should this letter ever be revealed. Thus, I implore you: once you receive it, hide it within your strongest vault, conceal it within a misleading container, use your ingenuity to prevent any other eyes but your own from apprehending it. For, you see, the outsider who reads these words would know my true nature, and, moreover, of that Achilles' heel which is found only in my heart. It is not just the physical means of my destruction that I fear, Elizabeth. The ways of ending my existence are unutterably simple. No, it is the death of my heart that I fear more than that. My very unwomaning, if you will. You do not understand, but once you finish reading this missive, perhaps you will.
I pray God that I may understand myself.
Very well, then: to begin. In the year of 18, we did indeed encounter the fiend known as Dracula, whose name is known the world over, thanks to the Stoker book. The account is more or less accurate, as it is presented. The lot of us—myself, polluted by Dracula's blood; my dear Jonathan; Dr. Van Helsing; Dr. Seward; and, not the least, Quincy Morris, the brave Texan who gave his life in that battle—did indeed vanquish Dracula. A knife was driven through his heart, and another one severed his head. He crumbled into dust within his coffin, only seconds away from the sunset that would have allowed him to regain his power and destroy us.
Dracula himself died only minutes before dear Quincy, whose name we gave to my son. He was born not quite a year after that battle. Stoker, of course, was allowed to report his existence. I did not let him know of my previous dalliance with Mr. Grey. That was not germane to the story at hand, and was none of his affair. Should Mr. Stoker have learned about it, we either would have forbidden him to allude to it, or disallowed him to publish the book altogether. I do not believe he ever learned of the matter.
Nor did Mr. Stoker allow any allusion to my study of chemical science. Such things, he felt, were not the proper province of women. He also felt that such a thing would have detracted (his words) from my stature as the "heroine" of the book. I held my tongue at our meeting, but expressed my opinions privately and violently to Jonathan. My husband convinced me to let the matter lie, that Stoker knew more of the literary world than we did, and that our share of the money it brought in would help us in our financial state, which was far from precarious but never as well-heeled as it might have been. Thus, I gave consent.
For some years, I was happy. As happy any woman can be, I suppose, who underwent what I did–-the forced imbibing of the foul blood of Dracula, the tragedy of knowing that my best friend, Lucy Westenra, had become a creature like unto himself, and then died beneath the stake, along with assorted other tragedies, not the least of which was seeing my husband-to-be driven temporarily insane by what had befallen him. But I had Jonathan, and I had my infant son, and a home I made habitable for us all. What fame would have befallen us from the book was deflected by our registration under a false name.
This was the status of my life, for over two years.
Then came the night, April 15, 18, to be exact, when all of that suddenly and horribly changed.
We had no servants at that hour of the night, no, not even an au pair girl, so there were no witnesses to the tableau that I will describe, outside of myself, Jonathan, my baby Quincy, and one other. Nor do I understand how he entered, for it is not given to those of his kind (and, to a certain extent, of mine) to enter where they are not invited.
Does it matter? It does not. What matters is what truly happened.
I was in my bed, half-roused from sleep by the sound of a window in the other room springing open. My husband arose to investigate, taking with him the Colt .45 revolver which had been found years ago in Mr. Morris's effects, and which Van Helsing had given him. Quincy was by our bedside, in his bassinet, still peacefully in the arms of Morpheus. For my part, I wished to remain in bed. If there were an intruder, I reasoned that Jonathan and his revolver would be sufficient enough to deal with him.
Instead, I heard my husband cry out, in a tone of undeniable fear. "No—no!" was what I heard him say, and I also heard the report of the gun...before his cry, or after it, I still cannot say. But his tone of terror was not unknown to me. It brought back memories of nights some years in the past, which I had tried unsuccessfully to put behind me.
I leapt from my bed, barefoot and clad only in my nightgown, and, barely checking on my sleeping babe, rushed to the living room from whence I had heard Jonathan's cry. Even in the dim light of the half-moon, streaming through the opened window, I could see him and the intruder. The other had one hand upon Jonathan's gun hand, holding it helpless, and the other on his throat, immobilizing him. I recognized immediately the eyes, the stance, the clothing, the form, the power, and, yes, the menace of our uninvited guest.
Dracula.
The monster who had forced me to drink of his "bountiful wine-press", and thus polluted me, years ago. The one who had been responsible for the deaths of Lucy and her mother, of poor, mad Renfield, of Quincy Morris, and of only God knows how many others in his reign of murder over the centuries.
The one whom we had most assuredly seen die, in the Carpathian mountains, and crumble into dust.
And there he stood, as powerful as the day upon which I first beheld him, as deadly as a cobra of India, and with a crushing hand upon my Jonathan's throat.
About my neck there was a cross. I never took it off, even while bathing. I thanked God for my caution, for, this night, I was to be repaid for it. Ripping the cord that it was threaded on from about my neck, I held it before me, and advanced quickly towards Dracula.
He yanked upon my husband's neck, draggng his feet off the floor. "Not another step," he said, in a voice that never failed to turn my heart to ice then, nor does it now, in memory.
I stopped, stock-still. There was no doubt about what he intended. My husband struggled, but he had no symbol of religion on his person. Without such, he could have had the strength of Hercules, and it would have been of no use against the man who held him. And Dracula, before I could touch him with my holy weapon, could certainly have snapped my Jonathan's neck.
What could I have done? My mind, as you know, is not the slowest of mechanisms. Should I have stood there, Dracula would have destroyed my husband, for sheer vengeance. Should I have touched him with the cross, he would still have killed Jonathan. The band of men who hunted with us and who brought him down was scattered to the four winds. Two of them were no longer even alive. If I did not act, and that quickly, their number would be swelled by a third. Nor was there any guarantee that, despite my efforts, my infant son might not somehow join them.
For I could not believe that Dracula could discover where we were living, and not know that I had a baby.
I dropped my arm bearing the cross to my side. "Take me, instead," I said.
Dracula looked upon me with a gaze of terrible intent. Jonathan was held so as not to be facing me. For that, at least, I am grateful.
"Give your word that you will not hurt my husband and child, and you may have me," I said. "Finish what you began years ago, and you will have your victory. Give your word, spare them, and take me. Refuse, and though you take my husband's life, I will drive you away, and gather a new band to hunt you down and destroy you without error, and without relent. Make your choice, monster. Now."
Jonathan tried to make an outcry, but it only came out in a gagging fragment. Dracula clawed the revolver from his hand and sent it flying across the room. Then he smashed my husband across the face and let him fall to the floor. He lay there, motionless.
Dracula came to me. His motion was not so much that of a walk, as of a glide. I cannot say how he achieved such a motion. But he was upon me, with his mesmeric eyes, his moon-limned fangs, and his aura of power and deadly intent.
"Your word," I said.
"I give it," he responded.
I dropped the cross.
There is no need for you to read a description of what ensued, dear Elizabeth. Some things should be kept from even the strongest of sensibilities. When it was done, when our visitor had left and I determined that my husband was merely unconscious and not dead, and that the venom within me was changing my body and, though it wrack me to say it, my soul as well, I checked on my sleeping babe once again. Then I wrote a letter to Jonathan on the back of one of his legal forms, saying little more than what I had to say to him in farewell, and of what had befallen me, and that our baby would be in his care thereafter, and that he was never to attempt to search me out again.
Upon completing this, I quickly took what necessities I felt could not be traveled without, stuffed them in a carpet-bag, took some pin-money, and quitted the house. I straightaway went to the home of our au pair, banged on the door, paid her to look in on Jonathan and Quincy, and left. Thankfully, I was able to locate a convenient and abandoned cellar before sunrise.
I never saw my husband or baby again.
The veil shall be drawn over the days that immediately followed. I prayed each night to the God of Mercy for deliverance, but I could not keep from what my thirst drove me to, though I did not take enough to kill. Nonetheless, I had become something not unlike what dear Lucy Westenra had been converted unto. More than once, I considered impaling my own heart upon what wood I might be able to find. But I have always considered suicide as the most mortal of sins, dear Elizabeth, and as much of my soul as I can keep from Hell, I intend to. Perhaps, like Faust, I shall be borne unto Heaven by a horde of angels. Perhaps—but no. I shall not dwell on other scenarios.
In time, I was found. Not by Jonathan, not by any of the men who stood beside us in times past, but by an agent of Her Majesty's Government. He came armed with garlic, Host, and cross, and could easily have destroyed me. I would gladly have let him do it. But he said that the Crown had work for me, and if I could find redemption in that work, so be it.
There was nothing else left. I resolved to try.
The story of how I was trained, both in the use of my power (to split myself, for instance, into an armada of bats, not a single one, as in the case of he who sired me) and in the ways of espionage and swordplay, is one for another time and, perhaps, another letter. For my part, I have written of these affairs as much as I can tonight. I hope this brings you some understanding of my plight.
For this reason have I joined with the men of the League: that, if there be a way of turning the powers of Darkness towards the goals of the Light, then, perhaps, there may be a way of turning the nature of damnation towards its own salvation. I cannot say.
There is only One who can, and He will have his say at the end of all things.
Besides retaining my secret, one thing I adjure you: should you ever encounter my husband or my son, I adjure you not to reveal such to me...no, not even in the slightest hint. There are weapons deadlier to the heart than the sharpest of stakes. If you regard me as a friend, if you love me, Elizabeth, please do this not to me.
But, should you meet them, perforce I may make a request of you:
That you tell them Mina loves them both, and will until the end of her days.
I thank you.
With all sincerity,
Your friend
Mina Harker
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill and is the property of Wildstorm Productions and DC Comics, Inc. The LXG movie was created by and is the property of 20th Century Fox Entertainment. The Dracula characters were created by Bram Stoker. Elizabeth Quatermain was created by Lady Norbert. No money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended.
by DarkMark
2 September, 19
My dearest Elizabeth,
You have wondered about my past history. Not, of course, that which Mr. Stoker patched together from my and Jonathan's journals, the accounts (even wax cylinder transcriptions) of Dr. Seward and the others in our band, but that which came afterward. I believe you wished to know how I went from the state described in the volume Stoker edited to the one in which you found me. Of course, Elizabeth, you have not said as much, verbally. But I can tell. Curiosity is not your most concealed trait.
I find it easiest to speak of such matters in writing. Alas, that may expose me to revelation of the most deadly sort, should this letter ever be revealed. Thus, I implore you: once you receive it, hide it within your strongest vault, conceal it within a misleading container, use your ingenuity to prevent any other eyes but your own from apprehending it. For, you see, the outsider who reads these words would know my true nature, and, moreover, of that Achilles' heel which is found only in my heart. It is not just the physical means of my destruction that I fear, Elizabeth. The ways of ending my existence are unutterably simple. No, it is the death of my heart that I fear more than that. My very unwomaning, if you will. You do not understand, but once you finish reading this missive, perhaps you will.
I pray God that I may understand myself.
Very well, then: to begin. In the year of 18, we did indeed encounter the fiend known as Dracula, whose name is known the world over, thanks to the Stoker book. The account is more or less accurate, as it is presented. The lot of us—myself, polluted by Dracula's blood; my dear Jonathan; Dr. Van Helsing; Dr. Seward; and, not the least, Quincy Morris, the brave Texan who gave his life in that battle—did indeed vanquish Dracula. A knife was driven through his heart, and another one severed his head. He crumbled into dust within his coffin, only seconds away from the sunset that would have allowed him to regain his power and destroy us.
Dracula himself died only minutes before dear Quincy, whose name we gave to my son. He was born not quite a year after that battle. Stoker, of course, was allowed to report his existence. I did not let him know of my previous dalliance with Mr. Grey. That was not germane to the story at hand, and was none of his affair. Should Mr. Stoker have learned about it, we either would have forbidden him to allude to it, or disallowed him to publish the book altogether. I do not believe he ever learned of the matter.
Nor did Mr. Stoker allow any allusion to my study of chemical science. Such things, he felt, were not the proper province of women. He also felt that such a thing would have detracted (his words) from my stature as the "heroine" of the book. I held my tongue at our meeting, but expressed my opinions privately and violently to Jonathan. My husband convinced me to let the matter lie, that Stoker knew more of the literary world than we did, and that our share of the money it brought in would help us in our financial state, which was far from precarious but never as well-heeled as it might have been. Thus, I gave consent.
For some years, I was happy. As happy any woman can be, I suppose, who underwent what I did–-the forced imbibing of the foul blood of Dracula, the tragedy of knowing that my best friend, Lucy Westenra, had become a creature like unto himself, and then died beneath the stake, along with assorted other tragedies, not the least of which was seeing my husband-to-be driven temporarily insane by what had befallen him. But I had Jonathan, and I had my infant son, and a home I made habitable for us all. What fame would have befallen us from the book was deflected by our registration under a false name.
This was the status of my life, for over two years.
Then came the night, April 15, 18, to be exact, when all of that suddenly and horribly changed.
We had no servants at that hour of the night, no, not even an au pair girl, so there were no witnesses to the tableau that I will describe, outside of myself, Jonathan, my baby Quincy, and one other. Nor do I understand how he entered, for it is not given to those of his kind (and, to a certain extent, of mine) to enter where they are not invited.
Does it matter? It does not. What matters is what truly happened.
I was in my bed, half-roused from sleep by the sound of a window in the other room springing open. My husband arose to investigate, taking with him the Colt .45 revolver which had been found years ago in Mr. Morris's effects, and which Van Helsing had given him. Quincy was by our bedside, in his bassinet, still peacefully in the arms of Morpheus. For my part, I wished to remain in bed. If there were an intruder, I reasoned that Jonathan and his revolver would be sufficient enough to deal with him.
Instead, I heard my husband cry out, in a tone of undeniable fear. "No—no!" was what I heard him say, and I also heard the report of the gun...before his cry, or after it, I still cannot say. But his tone of terror was not unknown to me. It brought back memories of nights some years in the past, which I had tried unsuccessfully to put behind me.
I leapt from my bed, barefoot and clad only in my nightgown, and, barely checking on my sleeping babe, rushed to the living room from whence I had heard Jonathan's cry. Even in the dim light of the half-moon, streaming through the opened window, I could see him and the intruder. The other had one hand upon Jonathan's gun hand, holding it helpless, and the other on his throat, immobilizing him. I recognized immediately the eyes, the stance, the clothing, the form, the power, and, yes, the menace of our uninvited guest.
Dracula.
The monster who had forced me to drink of his "bountiful wine-press", and thus polluted me, years ago. The one who had been responsible for the deaths of Lucy and her mother, of poor, mad Renfield, of Quincy Morris, and of only God knows how many others in his reign of murder over the centuries.
The one whom we had most assuredly seen die, in the Carpathian mountains, and crumble into dust.
And there he stood, as powerful as the day upon which I first beheld him, as deadly as a cobra of India, and with a crushing hand upon my Jonathan's throat.
About my neck there was a cross. I never took it off, even while bathing. I thanked God for my caution, for, this night, I was to be repaid for it. Ripping the cord that it was threaded on from about my neck, I held it before me, and advanced quickly towards Dracula.
He yanked upon my husband's neck, draggng his feet off the floor. "Not another step," he said, in a voice that never failed to turn my heart to ice then, nor does it now, in memory.
I stopped, stock-still. There was no doubt about what he intended. My husband struggled, but he had no symbol of religion on his person. Without such, he could have had the strength of Hercules, and it would have been of no use against the man who held him. And Dracula, before I could touch him with my holy weapon, could certainly have snapped my Jonathan's neck.
What could I have done? My mind, as you know, is not the slowest of mechanisms. Should I have stood there, Dracula would have destroyed my husband, for sheer vengeance. Should I have touched him with the cross, he would still have killed Jonathan. The band of men who hunted with us and who brought him down was scattered to the four winds. Two of them were no longer even alive. If I did not act, and that quickly, their number would be swelled by a third. Nor was there any guarantee that, despite my efforts, my infant son might not somehow join them.
For I could not believe that Dracula could discover where we were living, and not know that I had a baby.
I dropped my arm bearing the cross to my side. "Take me, instead," I said.
Dracula looked upon me with a gaze of terrible intent. Jonathan was held so as not to be facing me. For that, at least, I am grateful.
"Give your word that you will not hurt my husband and child, and you may have me," I said. "Finish what you began years ago, and you will have your victory. Give your word, spare them, and take me. Refuse, and though you take my husband's life, I will drive you away, and gather a new band to hunt you down and destroy you without error, and without relent. Make your choice, monster. Now."
Jonathan tried to make an outcry, but it only came out in a gagging fragment. Dracula clawed the revolver from his hand and sent it flying across the room. Then he smashed my husband across the face and let him fall to the floor. He lay there, motionless.
Dracula came to me. His motion was not so much that of a walk, as of a glide. I cannot say how he achieved such a motion. But he was upon me, with his mesmeric eyes, his moon-limned fangs, and his aura of power and deadly intent.
"Your word," I said.
"I give it," he responded.
I dropped the cross.
There is no need for you to read a description of what ensued, dear Elizabeth. Some things should be kept from even the strongest of sensibilities. When it was done, when our visitor had left and I determined that my husband was merely unconscious and not dead, and that the venom within me was changing my body and, though it wrack me to say it, my soul as well, I checked on my sleeping babe once again. Then I wrote a letter to Jonathan on the back of one of his legal forms, saying little more than what I had to say to him in farewell, and of what had befallen me, and that our baby would be in his care thereafter, and that he was never to attempt to search me out again.
Upon completing this, I quickly took what necessities I felt could not be traveled without, stuffed them in a carpet-bag, took some pin-money, and quitted the house. I straightaway went to the home of our au pair, banged on the door, paid her to look in on Jonathan and Quincy, and left. Thankfully, I was able to locate a convenient and abandoned cellar before sunrise.
I never saw my husband or baby again.
The veil shall be drawn over the days that immediately followed. I prayed each night to the God of Mercy for deliverance, but I could not keep from what my thirst drove me to, though I did not take enough to kill. Nonetheless, I had become something not unlike what dear Lucy Westenra had been converted unto. More than once, I considered impaling my own heart upon what wood I might be able to find. But I have always considered suicide as the most mortal of sins, dear Elizabeth, and as much of my soul as I can keep from Hell, I intend to. Perhaps, like Faust, I shall be borne unto Heaven by a horde of angels. Perhaps—but no. I shall not dwell on other scenarios.
In time, I was found. Not by Jonathan, not by any of the men who stood beside us in times past, but by an agent of Her Majesty's Government. He came armed with garlic, Host, and cross, and could easily have destroyed me. I would gladly have let him do it. But he said that the Crown had work for me, and if I could find redemption in that work, so be it.
There was nothing else left. I resolved to try.
The story of how I was trained, both in the use of my power (to split myself, for instance, into an armada of bats, not a single one, as in the case of he who sired me) and in the ways of espionage and swordplay, is one for another time and, perhaps, another letter. For my part, I have written of these affairs as much as I can tonight. I hope this brings you some understanding of my plight.
For this reason have I joined with the men of the League: that, if there be a way of turning the powers of Darkness towards the goals of the Light, then, perhaps, there may be a way of turning the nature of damnation towards its own salvation. I cannot say.
There is only One who can, and He will have his say at the end of all things.
Besides retaining my secret, one thing I adjure you: should you ever encounter my husband or my son, I adjure you not to reveal such to me...no, not even in the slightest hint. There are weapons deadlier to the heart than the sharpest of stakes. If you regard me as a friend, if you love me, Elizabeth, please do this not to me.
But, should you meet them, perforce I may make a request of you:
That you tell them Mina loves them both, and will until the end of her days.
I thank you.
With all sincerity,
Your friend
Mina Harker
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill and is the property of Wildstorm Productions and DC Comics, Inc. The LXG movie was created by and is the property of 20th Century Fox Entertainment. The Dracula characters were created by Bram Stoker. Elizabeth Quatermain was created by Lady Norbert. No money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended.