A/N: Set immediately post-movie, as the League are on the way back to London. This was originally meant to be a posthumous POV of Dorian's, but I decided against it.  


            Mina was exhausted as she entered her cabin, aboard the Nautilus. Since the kidnapped scientists and their families were also aboard the awesome submarine, Nemo had come up with a plan to ensure that everybody had space to sleep after their return from the destroyed factory. It was at least two to a cabin. And, somehow, Mina was paired up with Skinner. She was thankful the man was still in the Infirmary. Well, she was thankful he wasn't around to bug her, but she wasn't thankful that he was suffering second-degree burns on most of his right side, so she would have the room to herself until he recovered. As she walked over to her bed, she saw something on the desk.

            Curious, she went over and picked it up. It was an envelope, with her name written on it. She didn't recognize the handwriting, and she broke the blank seal and pulled out the letter. When she saw it, she finally recognized the handwriting.


            With a heavy heart and a feeling of dread, she started to read.


                      You may think these are empty words, Mina, written by an immortal who has had much experience with women. I have no way to let you know the sincerity of these words, because if you read this, it is more than likely I am already dead, some way or another.

            I remember the night you left me.

            We had a disagreement; that in itself was not new. But this time, it was different, about a topic we both knew not to touch. You stormed out of the house; I drank and drank, but no matter how much I consumed the alcohol in my possession, I could not forget you.


            Every time I think of old lovers, your face appears in my mind. The slight curve to your luscious lips when you were amused; the sparkle in your green eyes when you were happy; or, as happy as you could ever be, the fine skin of your naked body in my bed.

            I remember the nights and, sometimes, days, we spent together. I wanted to bring you to the parties I, being of my social status, had to attend, but you would refuse and say that it is not your place. I would accept that, and leave to spend the night with the mortals who live with us. Every time, I would leave as early as decency would allow.

            You hid your immortality from me, as did I from you. From the very first time I met you, at that one party you attended with Lord Goldaming, once the Honorable Arthur Holmwood. Once I saw you, through the crowd, I knew you were different in some way. Never would I have guessed that you were a vampire. I believe, when you saw me, you knew I was different, as well. Perhaps it was premonition. Perhaps it was something else. I will never know.

            Immortal as I am, I have had many lovers. I left them, unfeeling and cruel in my own way, when they lost their beauty or when I got bored of them. Of the uncountable lovers in my memory, two stand out the most. Sibyl Vane and you.

            Sibyl I will remember because she was the first one I ever hurt, at the beginning of my immortality. Her crying face when I left her at the dressing room is in my memory, and I doubt it will ever go away.

            You — the woman, the fallen angel, who made me feel like there was something new, after all my years. The only other person in the world who will understand the true feeling of immortality. You, who understood the consequences that it brought. You, who knew me for what I was.

            When M took my painting, I considered calling on you for help. I knew you would be able to help me, in some way, although I did not know you were a vampire. However, I knew you hated me with a passion.

            Hate and passion.

            The hate you directed at Dracula, the one who took away your carefree days from you.

            Passion would run through your veins whenever you hunted, nightly, for food which so disgusts you to this day.

            Hate and passion.

            You must hate me now, for being the traitor. Yet, I know the passion is still there. The passion we once shared when we were together. I can only hope that you can forgive me — if you survive my treachery.

                                                                                                                                                I love you,


            Mina finished reading, ending at the elegant signature at the bottom. She looked down at the letter.

            A single crystalline tear fell onto the paper.