#seward summary

[fictionadventurer]

The more I learn about Civil War politics, the more I'm convinced that Lincoln's most impressive and useful leadership trait was that he never let his pride get in the way of doing his job.

Other people in Lincoln's position would have come to Washington with something to prove. They'd have resented the insults and tried to disprove them. They'd have tried to seize power and credit, rejected help, spent a lot of time trying to reach a certain level of respect.

Lincoln's response to, "You're just a backwoods lawyer with no executive experience who makes too many dumb jokes," was pretty much always, "Yeah. And?" He had no interest in petty personal power plays. He had a country to run. There was a war on. It didn't matter what people thought of him so long as the job got done.

He was aware of his personal shortcomings and was always willing to accept advice and help from people who had more knowledge and experience in certain areas. He presided over a chaotic Cabinet full of abrasive personalities who thought they were better and smarter than him, but he kept working with them because they could get the job done. For example: Stanton was absolutely horrible to him when they were both working as lawyers. Just incredibly mean on a personal level. But when Lincoln needed someone to replace Cameron, he swallowed his pride and appointed Stanton as Secretary of War, where Stanton proceeded to be mean to everyone in the world, but he whipped that department into shape and kept it running efficiently through a very chaotic war. Pretty much no one except Lincoln would have been able to put up with that. He could put up with people who were personally difficult if they could do the job he needed them to do--which he was only able to do because his own ego didn't get in the way.

Lincoln's example is a prime demonstration of how humility isn't underrating yourself--it's being so secure in your own abilities and identity that you don't need to attack anyone or defend yourself to prove your worth. He knew his shortcomings, but he also knew his strengths. He was willing to give other people credit for successes and take blame upon himself for failures if it kept things running smoothly. He was secure enough in his own power that he could deal generously--but firmly--with people who tried to undermine him. In a city full of huge egos, in a profession that rewards puffed-up pride, that levelheaded humility is an extremely rare trait--which is what made it so impressive and effective.

[bluecatwriter]

My spouse and I have been watching the Tour de France (as we do every year, though we're a few days behind), and as I watched Tadej Pogacar and Jonas Vinegegaard race, my mind was like, "...I'll bet there are a lot of people who ship these two."

Looked on Ao3 and was not disappointed.

[singingbookwormwithrainbowheart]

Dr Seward is all too happy to tell all about Mr R M Renfield once more!

Mr RMR seems to love animals, but Dr S holds a bit of suspicion, even more so since the madman is catchig flies and keeping them as pets.

We shall see what happens next.

I want news from my dear friend Jonathan Harker so I'll know how he is holding up!

[dathen]

(via @see-arcane )

There’s something fascinating in how Van Helsing gives Jack the dubious privilege of being the only one whose emotions he won’t coddle. Over and over he takes pretty extreme steps to shield Arthur in particular and of course the women, but with Jack it’s “I forget you loved her too” and absolutely no tiptoeing around the suggestion to mutilate Lucy’s corpse and “I showed not my feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust” even as it wounds him.

Van Helsing seems to think that Jack is WAY more resilient emotionally than he is, or that he can get away with his bluntness because of Jack’s boundless trust in him, or some mixture of both.

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

🦂 Rapunzel 🦂

Dr. Florence Seward x fem!reader

tags: Hurt/Comfort, Su!cide Attempt, Bruises, not specified whether romantic or platonic, psychologist/patient, Comfort, Selective Mutism, Dissociation, Asylum, Pet Names, author thinks this is boring

wc: ~ 3.6 k

summary: It's December 27th. Late at night, Dr. Seward gets a call from Bethlam Royal Hospital about a patient she's been seeing.

A/N: Big trigger warning! It's non-graphic but thematically quite heavy. Read at your own risk. I made an OC just because of the topic so that the reader maintains some distance.

*************************************

Spending Christmas alone was a pointless endeavour, as far as Florence was concerned, and so she’d spent the holidays in her office, catching up on patient files by candlelight, since daylight was scarce in the depths of winter. In the corner of a new page of her notebook, she wrote down Dec. 27th with her fountain pen.

“Dr. Seward?” the new secretary—Mr. Fletcher—knocked on the wooden frame after having already opened the door to her office—as if it would annul the unseemly breach of decorum. For all of Renfield’s eventual descent into vampirism, his manners had been flawless from the day he started working for her. She set the pen down on the paper with a sharp pointedness, raising her eyebrows at him.

He shrank and gathered his hands close to his chest as if blocking a bullet to his heart, tapping from one foot to the other in this unbearable habit before speaking.

“It is way past my office hours, Fletcher. And yours, might I add. What is it?”

“A call came in. From Bethlam.”

She let go of the pen entirely and leaned back in her chair, keeping the heels of her hands against the edge of the table. “Bethlam?” she said, puzzled. “At this hour?”

After what Vanessa had told her about her treatment, she’d begun looking into the place under the guise of a private research project on institutionalised patients that aimed to promote successful releases accompanied by outpatient care and had taken up a few hours there.

“Yes. It concerns a Miss Harcourt in your care?”

Florence pushed up from her chair, drawing in a sharp breath through her nose. Elizabeth Harcourt; eighteen years old. Little Lizzy—she’d come to think of her as even though she knew she shouldn’t. “What about her?”

“They wouldn’t disclose it to me.” He pressed his thin lips shut right after speaking, making them almost disappear. She never understood what it was that made her so fearsome, but after her late husband, she preferred it this way. Perhaps she’d gained an aura after that night that she wore like a military badge.

“Get them on the phone again, Fletcher!” she demanded and went straight to the liquor cabinet for a glass of whisky and a cigarette. She’d given up on quitting after Vanessa’s death. Bethlam calling at this hour couldn’t mean anything good, and after how the last session had unfolded, her insides twisted.

-> continue

[spider-xan]

I'm not going to write a post about this myself, but amidst the fun of the three suitors in today's entry, if you're a first-time reader who may have psychiatric abuse, institutionalization, etc. as mental health or trauma triggers, I recommend checking out this excellent post by @crepuscol last year which marks off which Seward updates involve the asylum and doctor-patient interactions, as that part of the story involving him and Renfield starts tomorrow on May 25; I know someone last year also wrote detailed summaries of those entries for people who might not want or be able to read them directly, but I don't remember who it was - if anyone does, please add a link!

This could be an entire post itself, so I'll try to keep this brief, but Seward is arguably the most complex character in terms of morality in a story where everyone else is either Good or Evil, as he is ultimately capable of both great heroism and great harm, even if he harbours no evil intent; as such, he is a difficult character to discuss on many levels and things will get heated for understandable reasons, but it's important to remember that we should look at his character as a whole - neither sanitizing nor exaggerating his bad actions, neither erasing his good actions nor using them to excuse the bad ones - in good faith when analyzing him, as all aspects of him are important to the narrative and themes.

Also, since we're all doing Dracula Daily for fun, no one is obligated to read those updates if you can't or don't want to, and similarly, be understanding of those people even if you disagree, especially when a lot of the ableism in those entries still happens today, as psychiatric wards are the modern successor to asylums.

[thegoatsongs]

Almost every main character parallels Dracula, in their own unique ways, but the hows and whys will be apparent in August-November

Jonathan: Gothic doubling and reverse parallels essay would be needed, even a summary would be long.

Mina: Parallel to Dracula and also a foil to the 3 Sisters. Again, essay.

Van Helsing: The other foreign, mysterious, self-made old man armed with the powers of the Old World and blood. Narrative foils, baby! There's so much going on here, again.

Seward: His entire thing with Renfield is an age-reverse mirror with Dracula and Jonathan.

Renfield: Both old, both seek eternal life, by consuming life. Dracula is the ultimate power. Renfield, despite his class, is under both Seward's and Dracula's power. Their relationship is a Dracula/Jonathan contrast, almost a Dracula wish-fulfillment (Renfield lacks Jonathan's youth).

Arthur: They are both aristocrats, old money people. One is old and uses his wealth for his personal overseas mission. The other is young and uses his wealth for a common overseas mission.

Quincey: STEEL GRIP. Jonathan is bound to both.

[bansheeoftheforest]

I see you are asking for oneshot requests! Might I offer; truth serum but Jekyll isn't drunk this time, and the Lodgers have to deal with the guilt of their founder actively panicking as he spills his secrets. (Bonus: Jekyll trans reveal + Ito loudly stating her support of him/him reconciling with the Lodgers)

!!!!! I am DEFINTIELY Rusty and realized now that I am finished that I could have probably moved this in a different direction, but I hope the wait was worth it and that you'll enjoy this oneshot!! :D

also pls tell me if there are any mistakes because I've been trying to read through this a million times and I've forgotten how to post fics- help-

———————————————————

Title name: Secrets To Be Found

Wordcount: 4989

Summary: As Virginia Ito tries to keep her mentor calm during a day of anxiety, Dr. Ranjit Helsby and Mr. Seward Griffin decide that it is time to get some truths out of their founder.

Relationships: Robert x Jekyll (mentioned), Morcant x Jekyll (mentioned)

CW: Unconsenting drug use, internalized transphobia, transphobia

———————————————————

Helsby was up to something. 

  The man was a gossip, and by extension, he was always in someone else’s business, trying to find out more and more in an almost deliberate attempt to get his curiosity killed. Dr. Jekyll had never liked it, never liked it when the older man would smirk and grin, like he knew something you didn’t, which he often did. It was uncanny already, but this time... He did not like what his gut feeling was telling him. 

  He had tried to wave it all off, when it first started happening earlier this week. When Helsby would throw smug glances towards Griffin, as if silently communicating. He did not have any capacity to care much about either of them, he would not have cared if Griffin was the target of Helsby’s plot, yet he knew that that wasn’t the case. Griffin was a recluse even among the Lodgers, his temper and chronic migraines often kept him from forming any sort of positive connection with any of them, and so his sudden friendship with Helsby was... Concerning. His own suspicion was not quelled when a handful of days passed and their dubious behaviour only seemed to get worse.

  Safe to say, Dr. Henry Jekyll was nervous. 

  He forced himself to ignore this -probably imaginary- plot, and yet he had woken up with a horrible feeling within his very bones. He wasn’t really sure what it was, something within him was just... Jittery. Something was crawling inside of him but it was nothing he could put a finger on. He was almost certain that it wasn’t Hyde, as he had, in his own way, been quite calm and genuine the last few days, at least not seeming like he knew what was up with Jekyll or their body. He was not a stranger to anxiety, of course; but his anxiety normally came from something, it hadn’t come up without a reason in years, and that thought alone almost made him more nervous. Perhaps there was a reason, but really, why would he be nervous if Helsby and Griffin simply had a little prank planned? He could almost be certain he would not be at the receiving end, and yet...

  The anxiety had only worsened during the day, perhaps solidified by a familiar, nauseating feeling within his body; a dysphoria in which everything within and regarding his body felt wrong, no matter what he changed or how much he had convinced those around him that he was a perfectly normal man. Deep down, he felt- or perhaps knew- that he wasn’t. His jaw was not angled enough, his waist was too thin, his hips were too wide and his hair was too long- otherwise obscure details to his appearance which now felt like tell-tale signs of his biological sex. Perhaps that was what had caused the anxiety; the very fear that someone, at some point, would find out, and especially so when he knew- or assumed- that Helsby and Griffin were sniffing for vulnerable secrets. It wasn’t like he only had one skeleton in his closet, either. There were a myriad of things which someone could find out about him, which would inevitably ruin his life, and his imperfect body was merely one of those. 

  Regardless, the physical signs of his illness had manifested quite early and throughout the entire day. By breakfast, his hands had been shaking, and his cup of tea had slipped right out of his grasp and shattered onto the floor, making him jump as his heart practically galloped out of his chest. Before noon, another one of Luckett’s fires had gotten a bit too close to the chemistry lab, and while it had been nothing but a minor explosion, with minimal harm to equipment and no harm done to any of the Lodgers, it had still been enough to scare the doctor out of his boots and leave the anxiety in a thick lump in his throat. After noon, yet another bill came, another one that would be put in the “overdue” pile before the end of the week. Safe to say, Jekyll couldn’t wait for this day to be over. 

  It was evening now. The Lodgers had clearly noticed their founder’s jumpiness. They had asked, of course, but Jekyll didn’t have answers. He didn’t know why he was like this today, all he knew was that he had slept and he had not consumed anything out of the ordinary, he did not drink anything remotely caffeinated and so he could not have made himself into a pile shaking bones through overconsumption. Whether or not the Lodgers believed that was an entirely different question. He was just happy that Robert was not here to see him like this. He was not necessarily ashamed of his irrational nervosity, but he knew that Robert would worry and, quite frankly, not leave his side until he had gotten him to calm down. 

  ... 

  Perhaps that would have been a good thing, actually. 

  But it was too late now. Ito seemed to have sensed his nervosity, regardless. She was often a quite strict and stoic lady, but she could never help but to worry for her mentor, she seemed to sense his distrust and paranoia and had stayed close for most of the day, after the little explosion in the chemistry lab. Jekyll could get no work done today, and Virginia could not focus on her own work when her worry clouded her brain, and so they had spent the majority of the afternoon in Jekyll’s office. He laid down on his couch, one arm covering his eyes to block out the light in an attempt to rest, while Virginia stayed by his desk and looked through some of his old notes. Notes which he knew were safe, notes that she would be studying, as his junior. But it was getting late now, and Ito knew that Jekyll’s anxiety would not be made any better on an empty stomach. He had been reluctant, of course; he felt safer in his office, but Virginia did not want him to eat alone and there wasn’t enough space for the two of them to dine in here, so Virginia helped him up and linked their arms together as they left the office in search of the dining hall, where Rachel would have prepared today’s dinner. Jekyll could not help but look around in every corridor, as if afraid that someone was watching, or that something more would go wrong when he least expected it. He, of course, told Ito that it was just his nerves, and it was. It was not a lie, she knew it wasn’t a lie, but it sure as hell did not make her any less nervous. 

  They came right by rush hour. The dining hall was filled with chattering Lodgers, all behaving perfectly normal and no one seeming out of the ordinary. Mrs. Cantilupe and Miss Lavender met them with sympathetic ‘how are you feeling’s, and Luckett once more apologised for the day's mishap. The alchemists sat down by their own table, a bit further away from the rest. 

  Jekyll didn’t have an appetite. How could he, when his stomach was riddled with knots? The mere sight and smell of the food got him to feel full, but Ito had none of it, and left the table to get them both something to eat. She knew what her mentor liked and what would be good for him, after all, and she would make sure that he ate what he could.

  But then again, this also meant that she left Jekyll alone. 

  His hands rested on the table. One grabbed the wrist of the other, thumb against his veins where he managed to feel his own rapid heartbeat, and he continued to look around. As he was turned away, he soon felt the chair next to him move, and as he looked back, he was met with the grinning face of none other than Dr. Ranjit Helsby- possibly the last person Jekyll wanted to see today.

  “My good fellow!” he greeted, “how’s it going?” 

  Jekyll blinked, confusion already evident.

  “I... I’m sorry, did you need something?” 

  Helsby waved him off. He grabbed the teacup that was neatly placed by Jekyll, pulled a teapot into view from vaguely under the table and poured tea for the other doctor, before giving him back the cup.

  “Nothing at all! I just wanted to see how you were feeling, good sir.” 

  Jekyll squinted. Helsby -sarcastic, dramatic or not- never called Jekyll “Good” or “Sir”, and certainly not both in succession. Helsby was not quiet about his general dislike for Jekyll, or perhaps dislike was a strong word. He often thought that he was a toff, and he very clearly did not like the direction to which Jekyll was moving the Society, but that didn’t have to mean that he actively disliked him. Still, Henry did not trust his newfound politeness, and yet he also knew that it would only be terribly rude of him to dismiss the diplomacy which was now offered. He noticed that Helsby already had a cup of tea for himself, and as the other doctor raised his in a silent ‘cheers’, Jekyll had no choice but to smile politely and do the same, before taking a sip. As the liquid went over his tongue, he winced, doing his best to not cough up the metallic fluid right afterwards- what on earth was this abomination of a tea? He tried not to gag, really- it was absolutely foul-... He recognised it, he recognised the metallic taste and the sour smell- but from where? 

  He felt someone moving towards his right, soon Griffin slammed the palms of his hands against the table quite aggressively, making Jekyll jump and successfully gaining the attention of the Lodgers by the nearby tables.

  “Well well, Jekyll,” He said, smugness evident, “You would not mind telling us a few things, right?” 

  His grin left little to the imagination, less like a human smile and more like baring teeth, more like a threat. Jekyll almost sank back into his chair, his heart beating and beating like it was about to crack through his ribs. Still, he tried to act calm, and pressed out a forced smile. 

  “Whatever do you mean?” 

  By this rate, or perhaps by Griffin’s loud movements, the rest of the hall had fallen silent and the Lodgers’ attention was now on the three men. Virginia, who was just on her way back, quickly placed the plates with food down at the nearest table and rushed towards her mentor. It was in this moment that Jekyll recognised the liquid which had practically been forced upon him, and he felt the panic take hold of his body.

  Truth serum.

  But it was too late.

  “Jekyll, what are your biggest secrets?” 

  Something within Jekyll stirred, an involuntary feeling which was not unlike the one which rose when Hyde took over control- his tongue began to move, and the words began to spill from his lips faster than he could process what he was doing. 

  “I was born a woman.” 

  The men’s expressions were unreadable, yet Jekyll continued, spellbound.

  “I’m bisexual and I’ve been in love with Robert Lanyon for over 15 years.” the words practically tumbled out of his mouth, he barely processed what he had said as the next confession slipped out, “I was in an unhealthy relationship with an ancient werewolf named Morcant.” His heart continued to thrum, he could feel how his breathing quickened, “I don’t think I’m good enough for anything and I fantasise about throwing myself off of the cliffs of Dover but I’m way too busy to even entertain such a thought” He attempted to struggle, to shut up, but he was as paralyzed in his chair, until his last confession finally came out, “I’ve been hallucinating my minds most horrifying creatures for weeks and I am Edward Hyde.” 

  …

  Silence. 

  He was hyperventilating, now. Jekyll’s mind was an absolute mess, trying to process what had just happened- and yet the Lodgers around him just stared, mouths agape. He tried desperately to speak once more- any explanation, hell- any anger which he could throw towards the perpetrators- and yet he couldn’t. His vision- he hoped it was just panic- started to blur, and before he knew it, he had already pushed the chair away from the table, as he quickly got up and just ran, out of the room, into the corridors. 

  He heard yelling behind him. He heard rapid footsteps of Lodgers who tried to follow him. He was not sure where he was going, but he would rather be anywhere but near the Lodgers- his dear Lodgers to which he had split all his secrets, and Griffin and Helsby, who had drugged him and forced him into this. He had been drugged- just like that- His heart pounded within his chest, like a hare with a heart attack. Before he knew it, he was back in his office, slamming the door closed behind him and locking it from the inside, before the exhaustion took hold. His legs gave in, and he sank back against the door. He could barely process the footsteps that ran after him now stopping in front of the very office he hid in.

  “Jekyll? Henry! Henry- Please, open the door!”

  It was Virginia, banging on the door in hopes that he would, in fact, open up for her. He heard more footsteps as more Lodgers arrived, he could hear their various voices through the door. He pulled his knees up to his chest, attempting to hide his face despite there being no one to see him.

  “You BASTARDS!” 

  Virginia seemed to turn her attention away from the door. He could hear shuffling and high-pitched yelps.

  “How DARE you do this to him?! WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELLS WERE YOU THINKING?!”

  “We didn’t think he- or she- or- whatever- was going to have THAT many secrets!” 

  “HE. Don’t you DARE call him by any different-” 

  “Hello? Did NO ONE hear that he confessed to BEING Hyde!?”

  As the third voice spoke, the commotion stopped, briefly, like they all started to properly think about the things he had said. Soon more Lodgers began to speak. 

  “...Well- he also said that he is a bisexual!” 

  “Yeah, but is anyone even surprised by that?” 

  “Should we not focus on the fact that he said he wanted himself DEAD?-”

  “Fantasising about jumping off cliffs is not the same!”

“Then what the HELL is it?” 

  Oh, God...

  He could try to escape. He could take the HJ7 and jump out of the window like he usually did, escape into the night and not come back- well... Not come back until he thought the Lodgers had calmed down, that is. At the same time, he felt paralyzed. To think that he had freely and openly admitted his deepest regrets to the Lodgers- Lodgers, who were now arguing about the severity of what he had said. At the same time, his mind was only filled with the shame of his very first and last confessions; he had not been a woman in multiple decades- if he ever was- but his body was itching by a need to practically pull off his own skin in an attempt to rid himself of what made him unmanly and a monster, of what made him the abomination he is, the horrid thing which the Lodgers now knew about. That was to not even mention that he had just told them everything- from his shameful love for Robert and his horrid affair with Morcant- he had told them that he created Edward Hyde. Why could he not have simply been allowed to forget it all? Why did they have to dredge up the past- could they not have let him keep his secrets? They had no right, yet they had taken that liberty, unaware or uncaring about the damage they had done. 

  His mind was a mess, still trying to grasp what had happened. He couldn’t help it when a sob broke free. He could barely hear the Lodgers outside quieting down, destroying any hope that they weren’t hearing his anguish.

  “Henry... Please, open the door. Griffin and Helsby are gone, we just want to help you.” 

  He didn’t believe it. He knew Virginia just wanted to help, but he did not believe for a second that the rest of the Lodgers wanted to. The others... He could barely imagine what they thought. Were they going to mock him? Or were they upset over the lies he had led them to believe? Would they blame this on him? Or perhaps some were already on their way to tell Frankenstein about what they had heard?

  He felt something push against the door, and then the sound of something sliding down. On the other side, Virginia mirrored his position.

  “Henry, I’m not leaving until you open the door. I can stay here all night if I need to.” 

  Through his tears, he couldn’t help but snort. As a Lodger, he only believed that she was staying to force more truth out of him, to shake out every last secret until he was nothing more than a sack of skin, but as his junior… Deep down, he could perhaps believe that she did care. It was confusing, yet a pleasant thought. He had no doubt that she would stay, she had always been stubborn, he couldn’t deny that. Whatever her true intentions were would, seemingly, not be revealed until he opened the door, but he was sure she wouldn’t stay that long...

...

He wasn’t sure how long they had stayed like this, now.

  It was darker outside. He was certain it had been at least a few hours since the mishap in the dining hall, the serum should have worn off by now. He had not dared to show himself since, he had not moved from his paralyzed place against the door, but he was quite sure Virginia hadn’t either.

  It was stupid, all of this. 

  He began to wonder if he had overreacted. Or perhaps underreacted. Griffin and Helsby had violated him in a way few could have managed… But he had no real choice, now. It was getting late, he had to open the door eventually and until then, he would be barricaded in his office, alone with nothing but his thoughts. He just wanted all of this to be over, even if it hurt. 

  He took a deep breath, and with shaky legs, he stood up and unlocked the door. 

  The sound of the lock and the push against the mahogany seemed to be enough to get Virginia to jump up and get away from the door, making Jekyll able to actually open it. She was ruffled, but she had indeed not left. He barely managed to fully open the door before she threw her arms around him.

  “Oh, Henry.” She murmured, her arms going tightly around his neck. She was not much shorter than him, but she still had to stand on her toes to be fully able to reach him. He could not help but melt against her, his own arms going around her waist as he buried his face in her shoulder. They did not often hug- he was her mentor, after all, and she did not like people touching her, but this felt... Nice. 

  After what felt simultaneously like too little and too much time, they parted, and Virginia placed her hands on Henry’s cheeks. Behind her, he could see the faces of various other Lodgers, who also had stayed, although he wasn’t necessarily sure why.

  “You don’t have to talk about anything, if you do not want to, but please, do not run away from us again.” 

  She didn’t necessarily sound heartbroken, but he knew her well enough to know that she most likely was. He couldn’t help but feel incredibly guilty.

  “I’m... I’m sorry. Please, forgive me- for everything.” 

  She scoffed, shaking her own head in a gesture that seemed to only be aimed at herself. “I don’t think you have anything to apologise for”, she said. Her hands moved to straighten Jekyll’s cravat and waistcoat, equally ruffled from his stay on the floor. “What is important is that you are fine. Yes, there might be things that need some explaining, but that can wait. I have no doubt that you have good explanations for everything. ” 

  Jekyll took a deep breath, and looked around at the group of Lodgers- his Lodgers, who had waited for him. He wasn’t really sure how to feel about it, truly. He was not sure of their intentions, but today’s constant panic had left him... Indifferent, stoic. Like every emotion had been squeezed out of him. Yet, as he looked over the gentle faces of his Lodgers, he couldn’t help but furrow his eyebrows.

  “...What happened to Griffin and Helsby?” 

  He glanced back at his apprentice, and watched as her expression hardened. Her eyebrows furrowed, but she forced herself to not get aggravated once more. 

  “I made sure they are now at the mercy of Rachel, after what they did to you.”

  Jekyll winced.

  “Good god.” 

  “Mmhm. Serves them right.” 

  The other Lodgers seemed to nod in agreement. They seemed unanimous that what the two men had done in the dining hall was violating and horrid, no matter if it just so happened to be Jekyll and not one of them. It was… Surprising, and yet comforting, almost. But he sighed, moved forward a little, before closing the door to his office behind him. Mirroring his previous actions, he sank back down to the floor, expecting this conversation to take a while. 

  “I... Guess you’d like some explanations.” He said, exhaustion and hesitance clear.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I do. You all already know and I... I want to be able to explain.” 

  Virginia didn’t seem convinced, but accepted his stance. She sat down next to him, and the other Lodgers resumed their positions on the floor. 

  He began to explain Hyde; presumably his darkest secret. He did not want to dwell on it, he did not want to confess to the deprecation he had found himself in which had led him to Hyde’s creation, but he had to. And so, he explained, to the best of his ability; He is Hyde, but they are not the same. Hyde was everything that Jekyll thought wrong or imperfect with himself personified, yet he was his own person, with his own desires. He reiterated that they were separate multiple times, so none of them would think that they had been secretly talking with Jekyll, when they thought they were talking with Hyde. He stuttered and paused and had to regain himself multiple times, and through it all, the Lodgers just... Listened. Patiently. They simply let him finish his explanation on his own terms, without being forced. 

  Finally, as he quieted down, the silence remained for a few seconds. They understood, of course; what Jekyll had been feeling back then couldn’t have been easy, and while they were not entirely convinced of his reasonings for not telling them, they accepted it, and told him as such. They could especially comprehend his hesitance now, as they had not been particularly understanding of him and his situation lately, having been too busy admiring Frankenstein’s every word... At least Jekyll could feel happy that he did not have to dwell more on the fact that he didn’t feel like he was good enough, or the fact that he wanted to throw himself off of cliffs, as they seemed to have grasped that from his monologue about Hyde. 

  After a few seconds, Miss Lavender spoke.

  “Wait- did you not also say that you have been hallucinating? Was that also Hyde?” she asked, confusion evident. Jekyll grimaced. 

  “Ah- well... Yes and no.” he started, scratching his neck a bit awkwardly, “after Moreau, Hyde and I fought, and, well... I wouldn’t necessarily say that he created the hallucinations, but he certainly kicked them out the door. It was mainly because I hadn’t slept in almost a week, though. They disappeared soon after I actually did so.”

  “Was that why you looked constantly terrified a little while ago?” 

  “... Was it that obvious?”

  “Well, yes, we thought you were suddenly terrified of everything and everyone- even Ito and Lanyon!” 

  Jekyll winced, although he tried to get out an apologetic smile. He desperately hoped that this was all of it, that he was done with explanations and could be satisfied with a neutral reaction from the Lodgers. He took yet another deep breath.

  “Any-” he coughed, “any other questions?” 

  The Lodgers looked between themselves, then shook their heads.

  “Nah, we already know that you like men, and we don’t mind if you happened to have been born a woman” one of them said, making Jekyll’s cheeks burn red as he realised what he had missed. “Although, like- are you and Lanyon dating or..?” 

  Jekyll attempted to cough out the ball in his throat, to no avail. He felt himself sinking down further against the door as he attempted to hide his face, clearly wishing to escape the conversation.

  “I... We never... Dated, so to speak. We had a... A fling when we went to university, but he broke it off. And... I guess I haven’t moved on as well as I thought.” 

  He removed his hand and watched as the Lodger grimaced, Jekyll wasn’t sure if it was out of sympathy or because they thought he was pathetic, at this point it very well could be both. 

  “And the werewolf?” Sinnett spoke up, and promptly got nudged by Luckett.

  “... Once, back in university still, I went on a vacation with Lanyon, to his family’s cottage. We came upon an injured werewolf and I insisted on nursing her back to health... I- I was young, and easily manipulated. I don’t... Like to talk about it.” 

  Sinnett looked apologetic, and Ito began to rub her hand against Jekyll’s arm in an attempt to comfort him. God, he was exhausted. Considering it must be past midnight by now, it certainly wasn’t hard to understand why.

  “Well...” Ito began, “I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we are... Sorry. We did not know about Griffin’s and Helsby’s plan, we were definitely not in on it- and at the very least I am sorry for what you have been through, then and now.” 

  Jekyll closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the door. Still, he smiled gently.

  “I know. I’m sorry you all had to bear witness to this.” 

  “I... I’m also sorry for... The Frankenstein situation,” Miss Lavender continued, “I didn’t know you were hurting so much.”

  Jekyll opened his eyes, and watched as the group of Lodgers nodded in agreement. He normally would have simply snorted, it was awfully convenient that they were so sorry after he had a break about it, it really was. Water under the bridge, sweep it under the rug, whatever they wished to call it- but he was too tired to think about how genuine they were, or how convenient it was for them now. He just wanted all of this to be over.

  “I accept your apologies.” he said simply. God, he just wanted to go to bed...

  He wondered, for a moment, if the perpetrators would apologise, later. Or if they would double down and state that they didn’t see what was so wrong with what they did. It was wrong, so incredibly wrong and violating, they had to know that, too. But whatever would become of them would be the topic of another day, for now, Dr. Henry Jekyll was absolutely drained. If he was lucky, he could end the day and tomorrow would be perfectly normal, no one would mention or talk about the fact that he had spilt the contents of his heart and soul for them, unwillingly at that. He doubted that that would be the case, but he could always hope. 

  A soft sigh escaped his lips. He was just about to stand up and state that he would be turning in for whatever remained of the night, when he heard his own stomach grumble. He felt how his cheeks once more flared up in embarrassment.

  “How about we see if Rachel has any food left in the kitchen, eh, Henry?” Ito suggested, “then you can sleep- and I will make sure you get no disturbances tomorrow.”

  He thought about it for a second, but was interrupted by yet another grumble. He couldn’t help but crack a sheepish smile at his dear apprentice. “You’ve convinced me.” 

And so Ito grinned, as she helped Henry stand up. The various Lodgers parted, some deciding to tuck in and others deciding to come with them for a late-night snack. It felt oddly anti-climatic for all of them, Henry especially, yet he was almost relieved. At least he could only be happy that his secrets had been... Accepted. Perhaps it all had just been his paranoia. Or perhaps it was fate, divine intervention- no, of course not. But his truths were told and his soul was bared, perhaps this was the beginning of a stronger foundation within his relationships with his Lodgers. At the same time, he couldn’t help but be curious. Of course he knew that he had been the target of Helsby’s and Griffin’s little plan, in some way he was glad that he was, so no other Lodger would have been at the receiving end of this treatment... 

  And yet.. he couldn’t help but wonder; if it had been someone else, what would they have said?

  After all, who knew what secrets you might find, if you only knew where to look?

[enbylestat]

Mina's Diary

Chapters: 51/? Fandom: Dracula - Bram Stoker (Novel 1897) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings (read the additional tags!) Relationships: Jonathan Harker/Mina Murray Harker, Mina Murray Harker/Lucy Westenra, Jonathan Harker/Quincey Morris, Mina Murray Harker/Quincey Morris, Arthur Holmwood/Quincey Morris/John Seward, John Seward/Abraham Van Helsing, R.M. Renfield & John Seward, Mina Murray Harker & John Seward, Arthur Holmwood/Quincey Morris/John Seward/Lucy Westenra, Mina Murray Harker & Lucy Westenra, Dracula & Lucy Westenra, Dracula & Mina Murray Harker, Dracula & Jonathan Harker Characters: Mina Murray Harker, Jonathan Harker, Lucy Westenra (Dracula), Lucy Westenra's Mother, Sister Agatha (dracula), John Seward, Arthur Holmwood, R.M. Renfield, Quincey Morris, Abraham Van Helsing, Dracula Additional Tags: Inspired by Dracula - Bram Stoker (Novel 1897), Book compliant, Bisexuality, Period Typical Attitudes, 1890s, Historical References, Historical Inaccuracy, Slow Burn, Epistolary, POV Multiple, Historical Accuracy, polycule, Polyamory, Threesome - F/F/M, (in the emotional sense), Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Racism, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Misogyny, Gothic, Horror, Dreams and Nightmares, References to Dracula - Bram Stoker (Novel 1897), South Asian Mina, Rape Recovery, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Blood Drinking, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Vampires, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating Series: Part 1 of Accounts of Carpathian Vampire Summary: Inspired by Re: Dracula and Dracula Daily, a semi-weekly updated fan fiction from mostly Mina's perspective. Exploring themes of found family, heroism, love, relationships, perspective, slaying the monster whilst fighting your own and more…

[demonrubberduck]

MinaxJonathan, knife, waiting for the Czarina Catherine while Mina is gradually changing more and more

His and Hers Knives

(Summary: PG-13 for mentions of suicide and a swear

Jonathan has knives for Dracula, or for anyone else who might try to separate him from Mina, and Mina has a knife of her own.)

The gentle scrape of blade upon whetstone did not awaken Mina. It was a quiet, soothing sound, though Jonathan doubted even the passing by of a circus could rouse her from her slumber before she was ready. Regardless, he tried to keep quiet while she slept, and he doubted this sound would have even bothered her before she’d been bitten.

Not that he was the sort to sharpen knives in the wee hours, before. Much had changed in the past few months. He wasn’t the same man who had set out on a train to Buda-Pesth and beyond for an ailing Mr. Hawkins.

A few more strokes had his kukri knife razor sharp. He set it aside and drew another knife, a Bowie, from a sheath within his waistcoat. He wet the stone, then began sharpening its blade. 

He kept four knives on his person, these days. The kukri was the most obvious. It was the statement, and the other concealed blades whatever punctuation it required. Let it not be said that Jonathan Harker wasn’t communicative.

He sharpened the Bowie, then his boot knife, and finally the curved karambit. This had become his nightly ritual, almost a knightly ritual, as he watched over Mina’s unnatural slumber. Dracula had come upon her in their bedchamber. Never again. Though Dracula was far away, concealed in the bowels of the Czarina Catherine, Jonathan still kept his vigil.

It wasn’t only for Dracula that he sharpened his blades. Van Helsing and Seward’s eyes were ever on Mina, assessing her sluggish pulse and her sharpening teeth and that terrible burned mark upon his pale forehead. If they could not hunt down and destroy Dracula to free Mina’s soul, they would come for her.

And if they did, they would find Jonathan. 

There would have to be a strategy to the order in which he addressed them, he knew. If they brought Godalming and Morris along, they would have to be dealt with first, though he’d have to be wary of Seward’s right hook if his phonograph entries were to be believed. Van Helsing would be last. Though his brain was the biggest threat to Mina’s continued existence, his body was slow and frail with age, and with the others gone, he would be easy to dispatch.

“Jonathan.”

If the two doctors came alone, that would be better. They might, if they underestimated Jonathan’s devotion to Mina. Then he could silence them, and catch Morris and Godalming unawares. 

“Jonathan.”

It wouldn’t be easy to take a life, but he could steel himself for Mina’s sake. A man had to protect his wife. ‘Til death do us part,’ what weak resolve was that? He would be hers beyond death, beyond ‘un-death’.

“Jonathan!” Chill hands and an insistent voice drew him from his dark thoughts, and he finally blinked and saw that Mina had awoken and taken his hands in her own around the hilt of his kukri, which he must have picked back up at some point of his musings. Mina’s hands looked ethereally pale against his.

“My love, where were you?” she asked. Here she was, so sickly pale, yet worried about him. He shook his head.

“Lost in thought.” He put the knife down so he could take her hands properly. “I’m sorry.”

She kissed him, just a chaste press of lip to lip. They had not known each other as husband and wife since she’d been bitten. Mina felt herself unclean, and though Jonathan thought her still as pure and holy as an angel, he would not press her into couplings she did not enthusiastically welcome. These light touches would suffice him. 

“I fear I’ll be asleep again soon. Come lie by me, while we still have time.”

Jonathan sat his kukri on the bedside table and joined Mina in bed. She pulled something from beneath her pillow and pressed it into his hands.

It was another knife, in a leather sheath, its handle wrapped in a black ribbon tied securely in a knot.

“I asked Mr. Morris to get me a blade. It’s a fine one, isn’t it?” Mina motioned for Jonathan to unsheath it.

He drew it out. It was a simple boning blade, thin and straight, almost delicate, especially when compared to his kukri. Jonathan ran his finger along the flat of the blade, then against the silk ribbon-wrapped hilt.

“I see you decorated it.” 

Mina smiled at him. “Yes, it’s silly, but I wanted to make it my own. Will you show me how to sharpen it?”

Jonathan nodded. There was nothing he could deny her, except… except that which she’d asked at her ‘funeral’. 

“In the daylight hours, when you’re more awake,” he promised. He slid it back into its sheath and handed it back to her.

“Good. I need it to be sharp.”

“God be willing, you’ll never get close enough to Dracula or any other enemy to need a sharp knife,” he said. He reached over and picked up the kukri. “That’s what this is for.”

She smiled again, lips closed. All of her smiles were like that, these days. Hiding her teeth, fearing the day they became fangs. 

“I know it is. Each thing has its purpose, Jonathan. This knife is not for him. It’s for… it’s for me.”

Her voice caught, and Jonathan looked up at her sharply.

“No,” he said. He reached over to take the knife from her, but she drew it away and cradled it to her breast. He could have wrested it away from her, but he couldn’t bear to handle her so harshly, so he drew back, letting her keep the little blade.

“Listen to me, husband,” she pleaded. “I can feel myself changing. I am clinging to the same hope we all are, but�� but we must be ready, in case that hope fails.”

“That is what the kukri is for,” he said again. “If we cannot be together as man and wife, then I will serve you as your protector and thrall, and keep away any who would harm you. You can have my blood, my body, my life. As long as we’re together, I don’t care about anything else!”

“But I do!” Mina’s voice rose to match his own in volume and passion. “Perhaps you could find it in your heart to love me as a vampire, but I could not love myself. I must be human, or else I must be a corpse. If you love me, listen to me.”

Jonathan loved her, and so he listened. He forced his hand to release the white-knuckled grip on the kukri’s handle.

“Go on, then,” he whispered.

She nodded, and her eyes shone with tears as she continued.

“I borrowed a book on anatomy from Dr. Seward to be sure. This little blade should be long enough to pierce a heart. If Dracula escapes us and the transformation is upon me, I want you to…”

A sob interrupted her, and she swallowed hard. “I want you to use it on me. I’m very afraid, but I think if it’s such a thin blade, and if it’s plenty sharp and in the hands of someone I love… I think, then, that I could bear it.”

Jonathan couldn’t hold back his tears at the thought of that, and both of them took each other by the hand, crying. 

“A-and I would w-want you to go on with your life, and find happiness, but…”

“Without you? There could never be such a thing,” Jonathan interrupted. 

Mina nodded, and wiped a hand at her eyes. “I know, my love. And if that be the case, then, this knife can be for you as well.”

Jonathan drew her into his arms. “Thank you, my dearest. Thank you.” Her words delivered to him such profound relief that he hasn’t known since she’d arrived by his side at the Hospital of Saint Joseph and Saint Mary in Budapesh to marry him. He could face whatever peril, so long as at the end of it, he ended up where she was, be it heaven, hell, or their home in Exeter.

“It’ll be romantic, in a way,” Mina said, head nestled into his shoulder, her tears beginning to soak through his nightshirt. “Our hearts’ blood, mingled together on one blade. Together to the end.”

Jonathan nodded. “I c-can draw up our wills, that we will be buried together, in the same coffin, with this knife laid beside us if you’d like.”

He felt her nod against his neck. His wonderful, perfect bride and her obsession with the macabre. How he adored her.

They held each other until their tears had all been shed, and then Jonathan wiped first her eyes, then his own with his handkerchief. 

Mina’s eyelids began to sink lower, her pulse slowing. She yawned, but made barely a sound. 

“I fear… I cannot stay awake much longer….” 

Jonathan lowered her down onto the bed. “Sleep, love.”

He tucked her in, and took his seat once more. Now he had five knives to sharpen during his vigil. He held the kukri in his right hand, the little boning knife in his left, considering both. Dracula would die, or the Harkers would. 

He raised the kukri up, admiring the deadly sharp edge of the blade. It would be Dracula or the Harkers, and they knew where Dracula fucking slept.

[gellavonhamster]

Reading Dracula in Istanbul (originally Kazıklı Voyvoda (Impaler Voivode), Ali Rıza Seyfioğlu's Turkish translation/adaptation of Dracula) was such a fascinating experience, because at times it is really, really close to Dracula, to the point of individual sentences being recognizable, just paraphrased, at times it reads like a short summary of the source text, and at times omits certain parts of the source text completely. Renfield, for example, isn't there - presumably because the way other characters, especially Seward, treat him in Stoker's novel paints those other characters in less than favourable light, and Seyfioğlu was clearly striving to make his characters role models for his readers. Dr. Afif does not specialize in mental illnesses and isn't nearly as much of a mess as Seward. Azmi and Güzin (Jonathan and Mina) do less than Stoker's Harkers, especially Güzin - there is no attack on her, no threat of turning into vampire, no hypnotism and subsequent spying on Dracula - and Dracula, who is explicitly Vlad the Impaler, is killed by Arthur and Quincey, who doesn't die (yay). Also, it's set in the 20s, so sometimes the characters drive automobiles and talk on the phone, and the flag on the Demeter belongs "to the new Bolshevik Soviet government". And, of course, it's a deeply patriotic text, propagandistic even. But it's still so Dracula. It retains the heart of the text by having the Crew of Light sincerely admire and deeply care about each other, and that made me so happy :')

[bluecatwriter]

Well, this happened.

The fic summary:

"At the request of the Harkers, Dr. Seward makes a phonograph entry."

The fic name:

(Post-canon, rated Explicit.) >:)

[mediaevalmusereads]

Dracula. By Bram Stoker. Dover Thrift Edition, 2000 (originally 1897).

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Genre: Gorhic, horror

Series: N/A

Summary: When Jonathan Harker visits Transylvania to help Count Dracula with the purchase of a London house, he makes a series of horrific discoveries about his client. Soon afterwards, various bizarre incidents unfold in England: an apparently unmanned ship is wrecked off the coast of Whitby; a young woman discovers strange puncture marks on her neck; and the inmate of a lunatic asylum raves about the 'Master' and his imminent arrival.

***Full review below.***

CONTENT WARNINGS: disturbing imagery, blood, animal cruelty, racism

OVERVIEW: This was my book club's pick for June 2024. I've read Dracula before, but it was a while ago, so I loved having the opportunity to revisit an old favorite. It reminded me not only why Dracula was so influential, but why I fell in love with Gothic storytelling in the first place. It gets 4.5 stars from me for no other reason than it being a classic that I adore.

WRITING: Stoker's writing is interesting in that it makes use of a lot of scientific language, blending it with the supernatural to create an atmosphere that is sometimes dark and ancient, sometimes modern and philosophical. I love the way Stoker blends these modes and champions characters who are smart and have an open mind (though that openness is lacking when it comes to things like gender and racial dynamics).

I also appreciated the way Stoker tries to differentiate between character voices. Though not every character sounds unique, there is a difference in how Mina writes versus how Dr. Seward writes versus how Van Helsing speaks. It makes the book as a whole feel more polyvocal, which in turn enhances the sense that the story is made from pieces of diaries and newspaper excerpts.

PLOT: The plot of this book follows a number of English characters as they try to defeat a powerful vampire known as Count Dracula. The story is told from a number of perspectives in the form of diary entries and occasional newspaper clippings and memoranda, all of which detail the strange occurrences surrounding the Count.

This book is less of a spooky horror and more of a classic Gothic novel. That isn't to say that there aren't some disturbing images, but if you go in expecting a lot of blood, gore, and jumpscares, you might be disappointed. Instead what we have is the gradual realization that there is a vampire in England, and after some bizarre occurrences and a tragic death, our protagonists team up to defeat the monstrous Count once and for all.

I love the Gothic flavor of this plot and the way Stoker plays with folk belief and superstition in the age of science and advancing medical knowledge. I also just generally love Stoker's descriptions and some of the absolute weirdness that pervades the novel, from fly-eating lunatics to bats and wolves acting unlike themselves.

If I had any criticism, I would say that there are places where the pace seems a bit slow, but I don't know if it's slow because Stoker actually wrote it that way or my perception is off because I'm familiar with the story.

TL;DR: Dracula is a classic and influential novel for a reason. With evocative supernatural imagery, a clever multivovalic narration style, and a Gothic flavor that is sure to delight lovers of the genre, this book stands out and is worthy of its place in vampire lore.

CHARACTERS: There are a lot of characters in this book, so I'll try to keep things brief.

Jonathan Harker, our first narrator, is relatable as an average working class man who gets caught up in the world of the supernatural. He seems rather brave and sweet, as evidenced by his devotion to his wife, Mina, and his heart always seems to be in the right place.

Dr. Seward, the head of a psychiatric institution, is sympathetic in that he has to watch the girl he loves suffer. I really did feel bad for him and admired the way he stepped up to lend his expertise, even though the situation has little to do with him personally.

Mina, Jonathan's wife, is just so great. Everyone seems to adore her and I love that her intelligence is constantly praised. Stoker isn't without bias, however; there are numerous instances when Mina is said to have the "brain of a man" or is described as a woman in opposition to a man. The gender essentialism is sure to make some readers uncomfortable, but it's not particularly surprising given the date of this novel.

Characters who do not get POV sections are still charming in their own ways. I liked that Van Helsing was eager to assist people he didn't know and constantly championed having an open mind. Renfield was interesting and his fly-eating helped create some nice parallels with vampirism itself. Lucy, who has a couple of POV sections, sounded sweet and it's a shame that so many adaptations portray her as overly sexual when in reality, she's a victim who just wants to make people happy.

Most of my criticisms regarding character lay with weird gender politics and racial prejudice. I've already described the gender stuff in my discussion of Mina above. The racial dynamics, while not overwhelming, are present enough to be noticeable. Stoker describes a number of Romani and Romaniam peoples as superstitious, which in itself might not sound horrible, but does play into some negative stereotypes. Again, these dynamics are not so present that they distract from the main storyline, but they are on the fringes and shape the way we understand Stoker's world.

[historiavn]

I made a mobile friendly version of my muse list! Google doc version with short bio summaries coming soon!

[rmstitanics]

me? infodumping about the Abraham Lincoln centric musical I’m writing? HELL YEAH HERE WE GO!

This project has been in development for the last several years, and I unabashedly adore it more than anything I’ve worked on before. So uh … you’re gonna get a preview of it in the form of snack pack sized facts whether you like it or not.

SUMMARY: “𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋” dives deep into the tortured psyche of Abraham Lincoln and tells the story of our Sixteenth President’s tumultuous years in office like it has never been told before.

Orchestrally, it holds the most similarities to Les Misérables, Hello Dolly, Newsies, and Anastasia. The narrative structure of the production is comparable to Evita, Jekyll and Hyde, and Hadestown.

this production will be A STUDY IN … the five stages of grief, leadership during turbulent times, the joys of fatherhood, spirituality and the occult, the quest to discover and establish one’s self-identity, courage in its many forms, collaboration between opposing personalities for the sake of the greater good, the transformation of a team to a brotherhood, legacy and the historical narrative, mental health, personal agency, and the horrors of war.

The musical is narrated by Robert Todd Lincoln, who in 1922 at the Lincoln Memorial’s dedication strives to clear away misconceptions regarding his father. Similar in archetypal design to Evita’s Che and Hadestown’s Hermes, he tells the musical’s story as a flashback, and has an omniscience granted to him by historical hindsight. He tells the story so that history won’t repeat itself and no matter how much he wishes to do so, it cannot be altered.

Although it certainly appears otherwise at first, there are no human antagonists within this storyline. William Henry Seward deceives the audience into believing that he is the antagonist during act one; however, this character arc is resolved by the development of his friendship with Lincoln. The real antagonists are the institution of slavery, the civil war itself, and Lincoln’s own depression.

Rather than the Gettysburg Address or Emancipation Proclamation, Willie Lincoln’s death is Act One’s final scene. This creative decision was made to highlight the show’s focus on mental health, and to render the Civil War an entirely personal affair. The last number of Act One offers the audience a glimpse into Lincoln’s personal struggle with the death of his son. In the timespan of a single musical number, he speedruns the Five Stages of Grief, eventually accepting that his son is dead and he must persevere through the pain. If he crumbles, more fathers will lose their sons.

The second part of Act Two’s opening number sheds light on Mary’s approach to the grieving process. Upon realizing that she became “so devoted to [our] political advancement” that she neglected her religious beliefs, Mary begins to wonder whether she was to blame for Willie’s demise. Robert briefly abandons his role as narrator to become Mary’s subconscious mind, poisoning her thoughts with the concept that Willie was struck down by a higher power as punishment for sinful behavior.

There are several musical numbers and scenes whereupon Abraham communicates with two versions of himself — version one being the nine year old Abe, and version two being the Abe that has just arrived in Springfield. From his younger selves, he seeks advice, reassurance, and listening ears.

That’s all the details you’ll get for now, folks! Feel free to reach out if you want to be part of the creative team for this show, or even just to suggest an idea.

[see-arcane]

Meward

Summary: Within the mad and macabre months caught in Dracula's fangs, we have seen wolves and bats and rats forced to work toward evil results.

Now let's see the difference a cat can make.

For a proper visual for the eponymous Meward, head to Tumblr user @myroomismytardis' amazing blog and take a look at all the cat-ified characters from classic literature on display. Jack Meward, the little black cat with the gigantic eyes, is just one of many fine furry friends in The League of Extraordinary Kittyfolk. Thank you for making such an inspiring design, friend.

Ao3 link here

“Intolerable, unacceptable, and utterly, irrevocably insufferable. That’s you, you pretender. Yes, I said it! Pretender! Fraud! The most insidiously false example of your kind there ever was or will be! No, don’t you dare deny it. These last few weeks have been more than proof enough that you are entirely unsuited to the task required, to say nothing of your whole line. Nay, your full genus. And look at you there gloating! As if you were as proud to disappoint your bloodline as much as me! You little cad!”

Dr. John Seward had been standing outside the door with two attendants for the past five minutes listening to this and similar diatribes concerning some unknown traitor to a joint cause. There had been insults flung their way and apparent insults implied in silence as the man scoffed and gasped over his affronted sensibilities, stalking the room as he did. So far there had been rants and rancor and richest ire thrown about in such a way as to make the most churlish heirs pale before their fathers. Indeed, there was such a lilt to Renfield’s aggravation that it spoke of an almost paternal disappointment. He had worked and he had slaved and reared this unknown other up with his own two hands, and for what? Disobedience! Abuse! Mockery!

And so the ramble would circle around again.

John passed a glance to the men bookending the other side of the doorframe as if he might read an explanation on their faces. But no, his own confusion was reflected there. It was a strange twist in a madman already so full of sporadic facets, but this one doubly so for its seeming divergence from the major habits of his illness. Whether he was plying John for bait and animals to feast on for power’s sake or hailing the sudden religious apparition he had crowned with the imagined ability to bestow nameless gifts, there appeared to be a central focus on acquiring new strength for himself as constant motive. An impetus that always involved turning his gaze upward to cozen or coax for boons.

Now here he was inventing some entity to berate; an accomplice responsible for deceiving him or spoiling some goal outright. It wouldn’t be an entirely shocking result in other patients. Even ordinary prisoners of long sentences were known to either seek out or manifest some subordinate other to exercise authority over. But Renfield, he of the legion of flies, spiders, and birds, oh my, was already a veritable Cronus lording over a throng of tiny lives at his mercy. Perhaps he’d assigned some personification to one them..?

But no. That way laid the issue of many a new farmer or butcher who found themselves abruptly unable to take the blade to whatever livestock they’d made the mistake of naming and petting as they fattened.

“Look at this!” Renfield suddenly barked, stomping his way to another corner of the room. “Just look how simple I made it for you! Sitting there, whole and ready, and still you go for only a sip and nibble of what’s brought in the other way! Disgraceful. Wholly disgraceful. What? Oh, don’t you pretend it’s a matter of inability. You’re well past drinking alone. Yet even with what you’ve gained, still, still you are a mere mote. A speck. A crumb among the veritable giants that slink and prowl so efficiently on their lonesome. I could flick you right back out, do you know that? I could! You are that laughable a specimen!”

Renfield stalked and stomped and huffed. Then, in a conspiring tone:

“In fact, I will. I will flick you out. But not by the way you slunk in, oh no. You’ll not break in again, you cheat, you burglar of time and effort. There are authorities about who can deal with you in expert fashion. You are evicted as of today. Oh? Think I’m bluffing?” There was a sudden pounding against Renfield’s side of the door, so quick and heavy it rattled the thing in its frame. “Doctor! Get Dr. Seward here at once! There is an intruder in my room! Doctor!”

The attendants looked to him. John nodded. When they unlocked the door, Renfield was in his usual safe distance from the threshold, his arms crossed in a manner that seemed more fitting for a landlord smug at the sight of the police coming to remove an itinerant tenant.

“Well, what fair timing that you were passing by.”

“So it was. I heard you have someone here you want to be rid of?”

“Most expediently. I have tried, Dr. Seward. Most earnestly and most fruitlessly I have tried to wring the results and compliance I’d hoped for from this lost cause of a fellow inmate, but I can try no more. The cause with him is hopeless because he is hopeless. Mad I may be, but at least before him I did not suffer the madness of one trying to grow a tree from a beansprout or, more aptly, trying to yield a full harvest from a field of salt. If ever there was an entity made on this Earth who could order their very anatomy to be an instrument of sabotage, it is the preening villain who has imposed on my hospitality and patience.

“Weeks! Nearly an entire month I have tried to make progress with the thing, and I’ve barely an ounce of proof to show for it on him! And his stubbornness! His stubbornness, or else sheer weak-willed cowardice in the face of instinct, has frustrated me as I never thought possible for so insignificant a creature to inflict! I cannot tolerate his presence any longer and I plead, no, demand you excise the lout before I am forced to take my own measures.”

John nodded cautiously at this. Inwardly he was ticking over the possible responses he might have to make to appease the man without sparking some new fury. Did he expect them to pantomime carrying out an invisible intruder? If so, where were they meant to grapple the air? It was as John was pondering this that his eye happened to fall upon two glints of color shining under Renfield’s bed. A pair of emeralds twinkling in shadow.

“Renfield—,”

But his patient had followed his gaze already. With a mix of triumph and irritation, the man darted down and swiped at the dark. Then plucked a piece of the dark away as if scooping up a ball of cinders. The cinders mewed thinly.

“Ah, thought you could hide from your ousting, did you? Think again. This is the criminal himself, Dr. Seward. A thief of potential and promise and, as you can see, a clear failure as a cat. Look!”

With his other hand he gestured to the corner of the cell nearest to the door. A freshly dead bird laid there. As did a small saucer that looked to be of the kind used for the patients’ meals, with some bits of nibbled food still present.

“Again and again, he chooses the plate over the prey! I tried only giving him birds, but he refused anything more than a sniff before he went sulking and starving away. I had no choice but to suffer his spoiled wants and feed him from my own meals or else lose the opportunity entirely. An opportunity that was itself a lie. He is too small, Dr. Seward, and he seems determined to remain so despite my best efforts. Even if he were a veritable rugby ball of a cat it would not matter, for he has no lives in him but his own useless nine! Oh, I know, I know, you will say, ‘But he is only a kitten, Renfield, growth takes time, Renfield, even stray cats will turn to scraps before they deign to hunt, Renfield!’ I tell you, he is an exception. He conspires, Dr. Seward. With his own body, he conspires. I shall suffer him no more.” Then, in a voice so small John almost did not catch the addendum that seemed almost to choke him, “I cannot risk it.”

Before he could register it, John found Renfield had cut the distance between them and thrust the tiny handful into his custody. The attendants tensed to act behind him, but Renfield shot just as quickly away to make a show of glowering out the window with his back to the lot of them. His arms were crossed again and his hands gripped his elbows so tightly they shook.

“Take him away, Doctor. Foist him on some pampering lady or other with room in her reticule for the ridiculous little thing. I wash my hands of him.”

“…Of course. I’ll see what I can do. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Renfield.” The kitten gawped up at him. Then tried to turn and wriggle to face Renfield. Another half-mute mew escaped. Renfield bristled at the sound.

“Get it away, Doctor. Please.” John gestured to the attendants. They all retreated into the hall, locking the door after them. Almost the instant the bolt slid home, there was another shout, “Dr. Seward! Doctor, are you still there? There is one thing more! It’s important!”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he called through the door. “What is it?”

Then, quite clearly, so that the attendants could hear it too and only half-succeed in stifling their grins when they caught it: “His name is Meward.”

“…Pardon?”

“Meward. Doctor Meward in full, but we know each other well enough to dispense with titles.” John would swear he heard a smile in the man’s voice. “That’s all, Doctor.”

This was, naturally, not all.

Not when word of ‘Dr. Meward’ had circulated first through the staff, then the patients, and even to the occasional visitor to the asylum before the week was out. For reasons that defied logic, Dr. Seward found he did not have the heart—or, more pressingly, the appropriate opportunity—to donate the creature to another caretaker. He had thought perhaps there was a chance that Lucy might take him on. It really was a spectacularly pitiful animal and so was prone to pulling heartstrings with the power of his massive evergreen stare.

In fact, he had expected himself fully in the clear when he made a somewhat red-faced return to the Westenra estate in tow with Arthur and Quincey. Lucy, at first showing a slight pale strain under the ruddy vigor she had shown on their last encounter, had bloomed anew with delight on seeing the scanty mound of fur in his palm. Her jubilation doubled on hearing the creature’s regrettably unchanged name.

“Oh, that is a perfect choice, absolutely perfect!” she cooed as she cradled the bundle now purring in her hands. “He’s got much the same eyes as you, John.” But as soon as the compliment dared to light a blaze in his cheeks, her next words doused it: “I do wish I could keep him all to myself, but my mother always falls into hacking fits around cats. I’m afraid I can’t have him here.” She looked plaintively from Meward to John to Arthur. “Maybe..?”

“The dogs are amiable enough,” Arthur admitted, if sheepishly. “Though they’d need to get acclimated. They have a habit of chasing after any little thing that moves. But I’m sure once they got used to each other it would work out well enough.” An unspoken, ‘Maybe,’ hovered at the end of his words and glowed doubtfully in his face.

It was much the same as Quincey’s expression had been when he admitted, “Well, sure, I had a few old mouser cats as a boy. Only, I don’t claim to know anything about raising a kitten. I wouldn’t trust myself not to botch it, Jack.”

Regardless of these snags, Lucy spent the visit thoroughly enraptured with Meward to the point that she took one of her own hair ribbons off her head for him to play with. Once he’d tired of it, he allowed her to fasten the thing about him as a collar.

“You can’t have him going around bare, John. Otherwise they won’t know he’s anything but a stray. You must get him a proper collar soon.”

John had promised to look into it.

Some short and endless months later, the ribbon would remain. Meward would be too fond of it to let it go. Likewise for John.

But that was for later.

For now, John had to reconcile with his tiny shadow. More, with the unignorable fact that his presence seemed to have a positive effect upon the atmosphere of the asylum. Almost irritatingly so. What had begun as him simply running out of friends to trust with the animal, combined with his not having any personal home staff to entrust with the minding of him on top of household duties, was now a matter of ‘improving morale.’ So he languishingly informed his phonograph. Whether in his office or in the hall, Meward’s perching on a shoulder or chasing his feet seemed at once to quell anything from ire to melancholy to simple boredom in onlookers.

Often with shouted cries of, ‘Afternoon, Dr. Meward. And associate.’ Or else just, ‘Hello, Doctors,’ always nodding first to the kitten. Renfield appeared to be in much repaired spirits upon catching wind of this, now demanding to speak with ‘his’ doctor before offering any word to John.

“Ah, see?” he hummed to Meward as the animal stared at him. “Is it not wise that I shooed you from your lacking status as a failed catalyst for my purposes? Clearly your chicanery has endeared you to the medical profession.” Renfield gestured broadly at John. “You even have your own nurse.”

The obvious jab did not land as well as it might have on an earlier date. He had too much of curiosity and worry for the man to feel any real brunt of insult now. From the increasingly wild swings in his mood to the lapses of haunted lucidness, R.M. Renfield now stood nearly even with John’s distress for Lucy’s condition. Though if even a fraction of Arthur’s worry proved as true as his latest message implied, his own worry was due to triple. Laconic though Quincey may be, it was Arthur who was the fellow of infinitely fewer words in their trio. Whenever he deigned to offer a phrase in speech or text, it mattered. For the moment, he shelved such thinking in favor of his patient who sought to agitate to hide agitation.

“And have you anything you wished to share with doctor or nurse tonight, Renfield? You seemed upset over something from what the attendants implied—,”

“No!” Renfield gnawed his tongue so hard that it bled. He sucked at it, his face convulsing between exultation and concern. “No. I was mistaken. Or, no, I cannot say. And I cannot say why I cannot say. Never mind.” He gnawed, sucked, paced. Meward turned his owlish gaze up to John. A small paw swung gingerly at his mouth while his tongue flicked out and tapped his black nose. As he did, a whiff of briny breath puffed out on the air. Memory prickled. John cleared his throat.

“I’ve discovered something he likes to hunt. Other than bootlaces and pens.”

Renfield slowed in his pacing.

“Oh? What is that?” He cast a sidelong glance at Meward, who paused in his assault on John’s lapel to gape back. “He certainly doesn’t look much bigger. Though I suppose his coat is better.”

“As it should be. He’s taken a liking to fish.” He coaxed Meward’s claws out of his shirt collar and moved him to another hand. “It’s only an occasional treat, but he seems to be aware enough of where it comes from that I have caught him trying to prey on market displays of seafood when we’re out. Which I believe shows a clever choice on his part. Marine life is consistently healthier for the plate than any cattle or pork. And,” he was careful not to look directly at Renfield, but in a nigh scheming way into Meward’s eye, “they are almost always bloated with the nutrition of animals they’ve eaten prior to finding themselves in the fisherman’s net.”

Renfield’s pacing slowed to a stop.

“Is that a fact?”

“It is. I don’t often go poking beyond the edges of medical sciences, but recent reading from a French naturalist, Professor Pierre Aronnax, has been most illuminating. While hardly all of the ocean’s livestock are carnivorous, the bulk of sea life we collect for our own dinner is redolent with underwater hunters of little lives versus the farmland’s bevy of coddled cows, pigs, and hens.” He still did not look up any higher than Renfield’s frozen feet or Meward’s glistening stare. “Which is all without mentioning the miracle a man devours whole every time he treats himself to a crustacean. Lobsters especially. Not only are they fellow omnivores, but this Aronnax fellow theorizes that they may have properties suggesting an extraordinary longevity. It is only a hypothesis, he writes, but he believes that if the creatures are left to their devices without a fatal attack by a predator, they can live well over a hundred years.”

“Do you take me for a child?” Renfield snorted. “I am well grown out of such fairy tales as immortal beasts. Especially supposed immortals one can boil and set on a platter with a side of butter sauce.”

“Not immortal, simply endowed with an anatomy that lasts longer than the expected norm. I found it a strange supposition myself, but he makes a fair case, especially in tandem with the examples he’s put forth in the article—,”

“What article would that be? Some journal of quackery? You must not believe everything you read, Doctor.”

“I don’t. I only thought it an interesting concept, and one with impressive enough evidences that it was worth wondering about. Imagine tucking into a bit of shellfish only for taste’s sake, not realizing you were eating an animal who might have had more than a man’s whole lifetime ahead of it before you swallowed it all down. It is almost sad to picture.”

“Yes. Terribly.” Renfield fidgeted another moment. From the corner of his eye, John saw he was eyeing the window suspiciously. Perhaps searching. Apparently satisfied, the man donned one of his more familiar sycophant performances, sidling near enough that the attendants stood up straighter. Then, “Again, Dr. Seward, what article might you refer to? I am certain it will at least be good for a laugh and it would be such a welcome diversion from the usual softcover twaddle I flip through…”

John provided a copy of Aronnax’s piece a quarter of an hour later. That morning, he heard that Renfield’s latest crop of spiders had disappeared—flung out the window in a skittering spray that nearly scared a pedestrian out of their wits when a harvestman landed on his shoe. Not long after, Renfield had started wheedling the attendants to ask the kitchen if there wasn’t any seafood to come on the menu. Summer’s seasonable window was well past, he knew, but he had just now been struck with a terrible craving for seaside cuisine. He would trade every spider in the world for a crabcake and every bird for a lobster tail.

Hearing this, John had looked to Meward. The kitten had his own paperwork to ponder on the desk now; quite blank, but he refused to leave John, his forms, his pen, or his beleaguered hand alone until he had his own work to attend to. His unblinking eyes lifted up to find John’s.

“My thanks for the consultation, Doctor.” He set down his pen. Taking the sign, Meward trotted across the desk and bunched himself up under his palm. “A brilliant idea.” Meward purred his agreement.

A note was made to make inquiries as to budget and ability in getting the kitchen a stock of fresh seafood. He would see to it once this trouble with Lucy was taken care of.

Lucy’s trouble was taken care of. Twice.

R.M. Renfield’s only once.

It was not until after the Harkers’ trouble was seen to—this time finally, finally by seeing to the end of the one seeding trouble all along—not until after Quincey Morris went into the ground as a last miserable toll, that John could bring himself to visit any of the graves alone. Lucy’s. Quincey’s. Renfield’s.

On visiting the last’s simple plot, John brought along Meward in his coat. No longer quite a kitten, but still petite enough to fit in an inner pocket. The cat stared wonderingly at the marker for a time. He then paced away, seeming to search for something among the other graves. He returned on dainty steps with that something in his mouth. A dead bird. He laid it on Renfield’s plot and then curled himself around John’s leg, staring up.  

If asked, even by Van Helsing, he could not have explained why this was the moment that burst the dam anew.

Nor why this eruption was so horridly raw compared to his past collapses. He had wept whole oceans since the loss of Lucy, it seemed. For twice dead Lucy, for Mina and her damned undying, for Quincey bleeding his life out on the snow, and now, here, last and so criminally considered least until it was too late, Renfield. Renfield who had died as a man neither comprehended nor heeded in his last desperate throes. Renfield who had died to shield a young woman he had befriended for all of an hour over simple kindness and equal regard. Renfield who Dr. John Seward had never healed, only housed or hindered or harkened to for study’s sake.

He crumpled to his knees there among the dead who’d died ill and insane for lack of understanding. Face in his hands, all the horror and hate of self folded back on itself a hundred times over. Arthur did not need his shoulder. Van Helsing did not need his confidante. The Harkers did not need his brave face. His staff and his patients did not need his professional posture or imposture. Nothing was needed here, for no one was alive to need anything.

So out it came. All those deepest acidic tides of unshared grief that could never be dared in the audience of friend or phonograph or the fierce eyes of those who saw and judged the faintest failure of mind as failure of soul, because that was what he was, a failure of psyche and ability who was nothing, who could do nothing but look on, be a warm body, a recorder of others’ misery while he sat and stared and failed and failed and failed them—

A warm ball of fur was worming its way onto his lap. Then up under his jaw, trying to squeeze itself between his hands and his tears.

John looked down. Meward looked up. Blinked once, slow. Then resumed trying to grate himself against John’s face and hands and neck and anywhere else he could reach, purring like thunder as he did. John snuffled and swallowed back another hoarse noise. He laid both hands on the cat to stroke him. Minutes passed on and on until they became an hour. John picked himself up, cat in hand.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he breathed, pausing to tidy the skewed ribbon. “You have a true talent.”

Meward mewed. It was a purely affected sound. The kind he made either to win another round of petting or a treat or a dash of catnip. John supposed he could pay for his services with a medley of all three at home.

A year later, with the asylum behind and the future ahead, the private psychiatric practice of Dr. John Seward was making elated waves through the medical grapevine. It was recommended by most anyone in the Purfleet area—likewise for even the most distant neighbors—that Dr. Seward was the man to go to before anyone started throwing around panicked thoughts of sanitorium stays or the druggist or a mesmeric cure. Go to Seward first, comes the suggestion from all walks.

Talk to him. Talk until you’re blue. Let him hear it all, however strange, however haunted or haunting, and he will neither balk nor sentence you to a straitjacket. Dr. Seward actually listens. More, he keeps confidences. He lays out alternatives the patient themselves might take before being flung headlong to the pharmacy or a locked room. Talk. Be heard. Be helped.

And don’t mind the cat staring in the corner.

He is a colleague and he’s there to help too.