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2024-07-13
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2025-06-17
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A Time to Weep

Summary:

Post-canon: five times Mina didn't cry, and one time she did.

Notes:

The title is a reference to Ecclesiastes 3:1,4,11— "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:…A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance… He hath made every thing beautiful in his time."
Thanks to the lovely people on the thread on Tumblr who inspired this conversation!

Chapter 1: Jonathan

Chapter Text

Mina awoke suddenly, the lingering terror of some nightmare hanging on her like a bitter taste. She gasped, as if surprised to draw breath, sitting up on her elbows to stare at early light filtering through their green curtains. She had no memory of the dream, but it sat in the center of her chest like a weight, teasing at the edges of her mind.

Beside her, Jonathan stirred but didn't wake, and she carefully laid back beside him, snuggling against him and trying not to tremble too much. She hated not remembering her dreams; it was worse to greet the day with a lingering sense of dread than it was to remember whatever terrible concoctions her brain had forced upon her in the night. She thought of Jonathan, living with a several-month gap in his memory for weeks upon weeks, and shivered. He'd had it far worse than she; at least she forgot merely dreams, and not memories that would return to try to dash her brains out.

It was still early and she shouldn't wake Jonathan, but the sight of him sleeping always gave her a low hum of anxiety. She caressed his shoulder, trying to avoid waking him up but looking for the reassuring signs of him being in natural sleep. It was irrational, she knew; and yet the memory was burned into her mind, of him lying dead asleep while the monster's hands grasped her body.

She had touched him too firmly, because he stirred and rolled over, blinking. She pressed herself against his side, snuggling in close to him. She wished she could tuck herself into his ribcage, curl up around his heart, have his skin close over her, as if this could keep her safe. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm thankful for it," he said, rolling over properly to gather her into his arms. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the sweet smell of his skin.

"Bad dreams?" she asked.

"Perhaps not bad, but uneasy. And you?"

"Nightmares, but I can't remember them."

Jonathan's arms squeezed her more tightly. Mina sometimes thought that his arms were the only thing holding her together. "I'm sorry, my love," he said.

She clung to him, feeling a bone-deep weariness. It had been a year and a half, and for all outside appearances, life had never been better. They had settled into married life, Jonathan's career and office were thriving, Mina had published her first article, and they were even talking tentatively about having a child. Yet she often felt like her mind was a burnt wasteland, as raw and hazardous as it became the day she found out Lucy died. The goodness of their circumstances felt intertwined with poisonous black roots— grief and horror and guilt. These roots were everywhere. The way her stomach twisted every time she sorted the mail and found herself instinctively searching for a letter from Lucy. The way she had to tearfully ask Jonathan to be careful in bed, after he accidentally pinned her wrist one time and she'd screamed so loudly she woke up their housekeeper. The way she always hesitated before looking in a mirror, expecting to see the red mark marring her forehead.

It felt foolish, to see shadows everywhere, when there were none. The monster was dead; they were free; she was released from the curse. And yet her mind and her body and her heart could not believe it. She felt a coil in her chest, as if the space between her lungs was filling up with some writhing serpent. She had cried so many times; what was the use in crying again?

"…sorry that I won't be able to help you with everything."

She realized abruptly that Jonathan had been talking, and cursed herself for getting lost in her thoughts. Sometimes she had to ask him to repeat himself, but she hated to do that, and quickly ran through the words she had heard, trying to find context.

"It's quite all right," she said, disentangling herself from his arms and sitting up next to him. "I wouldn't want you to cancel any client appointments for my sake." They were having a very special dinner tonight, hosting the other members of their little band of friends who were coming in from London and Amsterdam, and not only was Jonathan busy all day, but Mary was out for the weekend with a family emergency, so Mina would be preparing the house and dinner all by herself. "Honestly, I'll be glad of the distraction." She felt it suddenly important to open the windows, to reassure herself with the light of morning, however dim, and she jumped out of bed and pulled open the curtains, letting in a flood of flaxen-yellow light. Their bedroom looked out the back window into the garden, and in the linden tree there she saw a young house sparrow chattering away, following its parent around with fluttering wings to beg for food.

"Distraction?" Jonathan asked quietly.

"My thoughts are quite getting away from me lately," Mina said, still staring out the window. "A little housework will do me good."

She heard Jonathan push the covers aside and stand up, padding over to her. "May I hold you?" he asked.

A year ago, she would have insisted to him that he could always hold her, and never need ask— but they had both grown wiser since then. An unexpected touch was all it took to fold time in on itself, with her horror as fresh as the moment the monster had bared her throat and forced himself into her flesh. "You may," she said softly.

Jonathan turned her gently toward him and folded her against his breast, stroking her hair. She sank against him, letting out a breath. Whatever horror haunted her, his touch also brought memories of how he had embraced her when she feared she was defiled beyond all hope. How he never stopped believing that she was pure and good.

The choking feeling in her chest rose, and she knew that if she let it free, she would begin to sob. She had wept so much, so often, since their grief, and she was utterly weary of it. She gulped, willing the feeling to subside, and felt a bit of triumph when it obeyed her.

She kissed Jonathan, and then they helped each other get dressed for the day, a ritual that she enjoyed no matter how fragile or grief-stricken she felt. There was comfort in the familiar movements, in feeling Jonathan's gentle hands lacing her corset and buttoning her dress, in holding his jacket so he could shoulder into it and tying his tie just so. They ate toast and eggs for breakfast, and when Jonathan stood at the door, he paused, looking at her with worry in his eyes. She looked at the crease between his eyebrows, wondering if there was any way to prevent it from becoming permanently carved on his beautiful face.

"You will be all right, alone?" he asked.

"I'll hardly have any time to myself," she said, trying a smile. "John told me he will be arriving soon after lunch." She had gotten a telegram from the doctor yesterday, saying that he was meeting up with someone in Exeter earlier that day, and so would be arriving before Arthur and Van Helsing. "And I assure you I'll be too busy cleaning up cobwebs and chopping vegetables this morning to stew in my melancholy."

The worried line didn't leave Jonathan's face, but he smiled. He started to give her a small kiss, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him quite passionately instead, which he returned with equal fervor. There was something intoxicating about being able to do that whenever she wanted. When she released him, he wore a dazed sort of smile, and she felt something like smugness steal over her. It was a giddy thing to be loved so well.

"See you tonight," Jonathan said.

"Have a good day!"

She waved goodbye from the door, watching Jonathan disappear down the street toward the office. In all her dreams she never would've believed she deserved such a kind, loving, breathtaking husband— she should be on her knees thanking God every moment for such a man.

If only that love was enough to make her stop feeling like her body was a shell, one accidental nudge away from shattering on the floor.

Chapter 2: Lucy

Chapter Text

The first thing to do was review her plan for the day; Mina had listed out every step for cooking and cleaning, and organized them chronologically so she could cross them off as she went. She'd tried to keep dinner simple, since she wasn't a very accomplished cook: roast chicken with carrots and onions, and some bread she'd bought yesterday. A simple cake for dessert, which she'd start later. She knew that whatever she made would be worse than what Arthur was used to and better than what John was used to, and perhaps in the running for Van Helsing's usual fare, so as long as she managed not to make the food utterly inedible, she'd be all right.

The chicken was already plucked and scalded, so she rubbed it in salt and thyme and put it in the icebox to roast later. She went ahead and chopped the vegetables, going very slowly to make sure to avoid cutting her fingers.

It wasn't until she had put aside the kitchen tasks— crossing each one neatly off her list— and moved on to the dusting that she felt the stab in her heart.

She couldn't say what it was, exactly: something about the quality of light drifting down through the dust motes in the hallway, the breath of July air gusting through the open windows, perhaps even a smell. But it spoke to her of a summer two years ago, when her world was bright and all seemed well and the light of her life, her dear Lucy, was still alive.

She stood riveted in place, staring at the fall of the light, dust-cloth in her hands. There was no reason to feel this way. Today was no anniversary of anything significant; it was only the 18th, and that fateful summer she hadn't even seen Lucy until the 24th, the numbers of each significant event engraved on her brain. There was no particular thing that she could point to as the source of sudden, intense wave of grief that washed over her.

When she felt this way, it seemed that nothing would ever be right ever again. As far as her mind was concerned, she had never been happy since the time Before— when Lucy was there, with her giggles and pretty freckled blush, with her scrunched-up nose when she was displeased and her grin when she forgot to be self-conscious about her joy. Mina remembered her kisses and hugs, the way they would snuggle by the fire and speak of impossible dreams.

She tried to tell herself that she should not feel this knife-bundle of grief in her body so keenly. Lucy was in heaven, with no more sorrows or troubles or worries. Mina was on earth, living a perfectly blessed life, with a husband she dearly loved and friends she treasured more than gold. And yet, all of this felt like ash under the burning reality of Lucy being gone.

Mina found that she had sunk down to the floor, her skirt pooling around her. Her hand strayed to her neck, where she kept a locket, hanging next to the crucifix that she had worn ever since their time in Transylvania. Arthur had given her the locket, with a wisp of Lucy's hair, split from the lock the undertaker had given him.

Just one lock was all the undertaker had thought to save. There was nothing left for her, the person who had loved Lucy with all her heart since they were girls together. Nothing for Jonathan, who had been a dear friend to her for many years. Nothing for John or Quincey or Van Helsing, who had given their blood for her. Just one lock for the mourning fiancé, as if grief could only touch one who was legally bound to her.

Arthur had given her the larger share of the lock, keeping only a few strands for himself, and though Mina had felt she should protest, she could not refuse such kindness. This was all she had left of the person who had been light and love and beauty. What good was the world without her?

Mina clutched at the locket, staring up at the beam of light falling on the hallway. She wondered if she believed in ghosts, and if she did, if Lucy would ever come to visit her, if they could ever embrace, however insubstantially, one last time.

"I miss you," she whispered aloud. Her breath moved the dust motes and swirled them in the beam of sunlight. Mina hugged herself, remembering how Lucy used to hug her so tightly it would nearly crack her ribs.

If she didn't get moving again, if she gave any space to the tears fighting their way toward her eyes, she would never get up again. She would dissolve like a pillar of salt in the rain, and find that there was nothing of herself underneath.

She struggled to her feet, and began dusting with fervor, as if doing so would prevent the whole world from crumbling into ruin.

Chapter 3: John

Chapter Text

John arrived at 1:07, his face aglow with the expression he got when he had just emerged from a morning of intensive work in something that interested him. For a moment Mina managed to forget the sick, gray feeling inside as she slipped into the familiarity of their usual greeting, an exchanged kiss on the cheek that always left the doctor a delightful shade of pink. (She felt that she should be penitent for enjoying having this effect on him, but she could never quite muster the will to do so.)

It was no surprise to her that he was bursting with words, chattering away at once about the doctor in Exeter he had met with that morning. She tried to focus on what he was saying: she knew it was very important to him, since both he and this doctor were exploring the brand-new field of "talk therapy." She managed to get them settled in the drawing room with cups of tea— her sitting, and him pacing the room and gesturing wildly as he explained the innovations of this branch of science— and she tried hard to listen.

It was oddly fascinating to watch someone who seemed so untouched by grief, so filled with new life and purpose. She remembered how depressed his phonograph diary had been once upon a time, and how he had blossomed ever since. Quitting his position at the asylum had certainly been good for him. Now he flitted back and forth between his apartment in London, his room at Ring, and Van Helsing's house in Amsterdam, always working on a dozen different research projects and chasing whatever seemed to catch his eye at the moment. He was less obsessed with status and more focused on what interested him; he had allowed his compassion for his friends to start to seep outward to those he did not know. He had grown so much.

Next to him, Mina felt suddenly small, like a leafless branch beneath a tree in full bloom. His words filled the room, spilling out to the corners like floodwaters, pressing on her with palpable force. She was drowning in the glow of his excitement, starving for air as the words filled up all the space around her.

Abruptly, he sat down next to her, and she blinked at him as if noticing him for the first time. How long had he been talking, while his words swirled mutely around her like water? "Forgive me," he said. "I have been prattling away. Please, Mina, tell me how you are."

She blinked at him, slowly, and then took a sip of her tea. It was cold now, so cold that she almost doubted that it had ever been hot. How long had he been talking? How could she have drifted into such a haze?

Without warning, a fist of grief clenched in her chest, and for a moment, she thought she was going to sob. She took another sip of tea to drown the feeling. She tried to remember how to speak. There had been so many words. There were no words left for her.

And even if she found words, what would she say? She looked at his cheerful face, flushed with a healthy glow: no, it would be a sin to tell him of the woe that held her in place like a straitjacket. It would make him feel bad, and her feel worse.

Words. She must find some words for herself.

She set down her tea, smiled at him, and spoke.

"I am busy, as usual. I have another article I'm currently editing…"

And just like that, she had control over herself again. She spoke of her latest article, of her hopes for getting it published, of the practicalities of her day, separate from the tightness in her chest. If she could just keep up a cheerful face, perhaps the swirling chaos within would settle down and leave her alone, at least for today.

She had to try.

Chapter 4: Arthur

Chapter Text

Arthur arrived by coach, having insisted that no one need meet him at the train station, and showed up at her door with usual cheerfulness that he maintained despite the grief that always haunted his eyes. He greeted both Mina and John with a kiss on the cheek, and the three of them small-talked for a while before John took the same coach to the station to meet Van Helsing. Arthur would keep Mina company until they both returned.

It wasn't quite time to start the cake or the roast chicken for dinner, so she made a fresh pot of tea. Arthur had brought along some chocolate biscuits and told her, with a wink, that no one would notice if she pilfered a few before the others arrived. She laughed and nibbled on one as they spoke.

They talked lightly about the various goings-on of their lives, but as they did so, Mina saw a sadness— beyond the usual— lurking in Arthur's eyes. When the conversation lulled, she took his hand and looked at him earnestly. "You look troubled today," she said. "What is it?"

Arthur never hesitated to show how he was feeling: his eyes immediately welled with tears, though they didn't fall. "I'm sorry. It's really nothing out of the ordinary…"

Mina felt a strange sense of relief in her chest, though she couldn't say why. She squeezed his hand. "Please tell me."

"It's only… I received an upsetting letter today. No bad news," he added quickly, seeing her concern. "It was a perfectly innocuous piece of correspondence, from a family friend, inquiring as to my health." He sighed. "And I wouldn't have minded, except that the letter very pointedly mentioned that her daughter would very much like to visit me and help to ease my grief— as this woman has told me multiple times before. It's— it's a thinly-veiled attempt to try to set me up with her daughter."

Mina didn't move a muscle of her face, but she felt an intense flash of anger at this unnamed woman. How dare anyone try to force Arthur to move on, when Lucy was still not even two years in her grave! She tried to repent of this anger at once, but it simmered in her gut, a sour feeling.

"It's just one more reminder that I've lost her," Arthur said quietly, staring into space. "I am not even remotely ready to move on, but people act as if I can just shuffle off the grief like a garment and start anew. But I can't! I need time."

"Of course you do," Mina said, her voice a little sharp from the anger inside. "No one has the right to tell you when to move on. In fact, I don't think that it is possible to truly move on. Perhaps the grief will always be part of you, sharp as glass in your stomach, no matter what happens."

She paused, wondering if this was a harsh and unpleasant thing to say, though nothing had ever felt truer. Arthur wiped his eyes and looked at her as if trying to read her thoughts. She looked away, hastily munching on another biscuit.

"I think you're right," Arthur said quietly. "I know that you mourn her as much as anyone could. Your loss was great indeed."

The feeling of relief had vanished, and Mina suddenly realized its source: having another person's pain to focus on. If she could help him, if she could pour herself into making him feel better, she would not have to think about the depression that stomped all over her today. She could not bear the conversation turning to her; she would start to weep, and she would not be able to stop. It was true that if there were anyone she could break down in front of, it would be Arthur, and yet she was sick of it, sick of feeling out of control. She mastered herself, keeping her voice even as she turned her attention razor-sharp back to him. "What do you do with such letters?"

He smirked. "I burn them. It helps, a little." He leaned forward. "But Mina, tell me, how are you?"

She almost flinched at the words, as if she had thrown him a ball and he had bowled it back at her head. "All is well here," she said, and it was true, really. Nothing was wrong; nothing was the cause of the constriction around her heart and her lungs and her eyes and her throat. To speak of it was to look at it, and she was sick of wallowing. If she could just focus on Arthur and his troubles instead, she would not crumple in on herself like paper in a fire. And he deserved her attention. After all, he was grieving not only Lucy, but Quincey and his father— he had more cause to mourn than she did. His life and his future had been snatched away, while Mina still had Jonathan…

"I truly want to know," she said determinedly, "how are you bearing up?"

Slowly at first, and then in waves of emotion, Arthur poured out his heart to her, and she let him weep on her shoulder as she had the first time they had met. It felt good, to encircle his large shoulders with his arms, to feel the weight of his head on her shoulder, to rub slow circles on his back as he spoke. Any time he tried to turn the conversation to her and how she was doing, she deftly parried him, redirecting him to his own sorrows.

She drowned herself in his grief, letting it distract her from her own.