Archive of Our Own

[It has remained unopened for a while. The wax seal has been torn carefully, but the paper is somewhat crumpled.]

 

14th of —, 1875

 

Dearest Micolash,

It has been a trying week.

I stepped into the office you had claimed for yourself and saw nothing but empty bookshelves and a desk bared of its ornaments. You hated it as much as the veil of secrecy floating upon the Upper Cathedral Ward, and that is something I could never fault you for. The Choir, for all its virtues, remains an institution of research. Thus it is not immune to what tore Byrgenwerth apart, and I am not surprised to find that you have left it behind. And I, along with it— I must ask whether I am a casualty or the primary reason for your departure, although the answer is one I dread.

You used to smoke in that room. I keep it enclosed so that the scent remains. Though fading, it still reminds me that I could scarcely bear the perfume of your vices. And still I let you shroud yourself in that coat of ashes Rom left behind when I should have stopped it. I offered you the guise of nobility; thinking that if you looked refined enough, I could forgive the way it would end up killing you. And you grinned at me, death at your fingertips. It crawled out the corners of your mouth and I wished you to sink your teeth into it. Should you have pierced the flesh of your lip with that chipped canine and drawn forth blood, perhaps I could have forgiven it. To see holiness dribble down your chin might have quelled the palpitations of my faltering heart. Only I would not have tasted it. For how could it compare to the elixir of the Gods; how could theirs compare, if not in dreams, to a trail of red coating your pale face?

Surely you think me to be a liar. Beastly as I am, so caught in the throes of physicality; be it my own or that of others. The Knight could tell you stories of carnal devotion the likes of which you would frown upon. But to have you, so near, and not to lick the blood off your wound, would be the proof of my utmost respect for the man you are. A word and I’d consume you as though from a chalice. An icy glare and I’d do your bidding. The scales have never been tipped in my favour, and you know this as much as I now. You always were the one to hold the reins, even when not aware of it.

For what is a Vicar without his Acolyte?

Were you to come back, and peer into the corners where the scent lingers most— I wonder what colours you would see.

Please consider writing back. It is all I ask of you.

Yours truly,

Vicar Laurence

[Though the penmanship is familiar, there is something new in the way some letters curve. One with a good eye could mistake it for sadness.]

 

2nd of —, 1875

 

Esteemed Vicar,

I shall admit that your letter caught me off guard. Can you not remember how harsh my words were— or perhaps did you choose not to heed them, so as to preserve the illusion that I am still haunting your walls.

No need to answer that query; your own words made it abundantly clear. You remain as hot-blooded as you have always been. For old times’ sake, I wish I could open a bottle of wine in your honour. Alas, I fear it might render me rather limp, should I engage with opiates as is my usual manner. Yet another thing that brings us impossibly together and apart: syringes and needles. Yours draining veins dry; mine filling them with euphoric half-dreams.

Should you try and indulge, perhaps you would hear the same colours as I do. Those of a cosmos so sincere that its accents could not possibly be confounded with those of false idols. Cathedrals and churches are not, as you might try to convince yourself, the price of your devotion. If only you could open your eyes; get rid of that golden blindfold inherited from Willem’s teachings; I am quite certain that you would remember how much sturdier libraries are. Might your spires fail to carry the weight of your knowledge— I imagine that you will endure the fall as gracefully as you go about everything else.

Allow me to add that you would resent my new abode. I suspect you have any idea where it is, but please do keep it to yourself. No harm shall befall you on my word. I trust you have the courtesy to ensure the same. ‘Tis always cold here, or so my secretary tells me. It bears no discomfort to me. If anything, it soothes the nerves. You would disagree; complain, though with dignity, and ask to be brought to the warmth of a fire. Do you know what they say about stars— that even the brightest of them die eventually. I need not tell you that the Sun itself is not immortal.

Whether your plea for a return is sincere or a mockery, it matters not; for you shall not see me in the Upper Ward again. If you are right in one thing, it is my contempt for such a place. Could it only be a temple of science, and not an incense-filled theatre— Do away with the remains of my irksome vice if it can bring you some peace.

Even should I wish for it, I could never return. There is a place for me at your side, but what of my ideas? I do not carry them along in my pockets like a deck of cards. They are part of me as much as I am part of them.

I am sorry that you could not accept them.

Regards,

Micolash K.,

Headmaster of the School of Mensis

 

[This letter came with a larger parcel, tightly wrapped in high-quality cloth. It smells faintly of perfume and incense.]

 

23rd of —, 1876

 

Dear Micolash,

Do forgive me for the delay. As you might well know, things have taken a rather brutal turn hereabouts.

The scourge is steadily progressing. You complained, back in your Choir time, of how much you resented the scent of incense. Were it not so ironic, I suppose you would be glad to know that it is scarcely discernible nowadays. The Cathedral itself is as pungent as a clinic. Do you remember Amelia? She is diligent and very good to me. Whenever I look at her face, I see how young she is, and the weight of the world in her eyes strikes me as beyond her years. She is almost a child still, as we were when we pried the cosmos open with scalpels and ambitions. Yet there is never a complaint in her voice. It does not waver when she has to deliver sacraments, nor does it tremble in the face of death. Countless parishioners come to weep and I do not have time to grant them. She acts as my eyes and ears, it is true, but her words do much more to soothe than mine ever could. Should I be ashamed not to feel guilt at the thought that despite all she does to ease my burden, she does not make an adequate replacement for you? By all means, she makes a much better acolyte than you ever did. Perhaps I find myself missing our constant battles of wits and the youthful spirit that animated them.

Nevertheless, I am willing to grant your request. You shall find the documents you asked for with this letter. I know not why you’d want to rekindle such memories, but I cannot fault you for this. Remembrance can bring a sense of closure that you and I, as many a fallen colleague, have been looking for with no hope of finding it. I do not recall the smell of these shores as well as you must, and yet every draught brings me back there in an instant. I light fires in every hearth and wish not to be cold ever again.

I pray that these records offer you a measure of peace.

Yours truly,

Laurence

 

P.-S.: I believe you just passed your thirty-ninth birthday. Though I know it is not a custom of yours to celebrate such a trivial occasion, I took the liberty of adjoining something to the parcel you required. Do not think ill of me for being so frivolous. You might get rid of it and I shall never know that you did, but please indulge an old friend who hopes that the taste of happier times might alleviate some of the burden. Besides, it has always been yours.

[The same parcel has been returned and reopened with care. The contents are different, but the book that lies within might have as much value as a previously sent memorabilia. It still smells like perfume, and a hint of smoke.]

 

4th of —, 1876

 

Vicar,

I thank you for providing me with the requested documents without making a fuss of it.

Could you not have wrapped the parcel in something else? I am forced to return this odorous cloth to you; I might be gone, but the perfume you coat yourself in still fails to agree with my senses. I could have done away with it, true— though part of me resents the idea of throwing your fineries to the flames. Do me the courtesy of accepting it as I have accepted your untimely gift, and let us leave it at that.

It is rather uncharacteristic of you to be the bearer of bad news, and thus I am forced to doubt the purity of your intention. Though I spoke of courtesy, I am not so much a fool. You can tell me about the state of the scourge and my stance would remain the same: our research needs secrecy and it shall remain so. Not that anything we are doing is in any way worse than what we used to accomplish together during our collaboration. You would not shiver before our experiments. No more would you frown upon them. There are gruesome sights to be met, as in all things; I trust that your now wound-scented Cathedral grants your eyes plenty. Should it not be the case, I invite you to leave your office and walk amongst the results of your plans. Or whatever it is that remains. One thing that our days at the Hamlet did imprint upon me is the necessity to coat one’s hands in the filth borne from the most harrowing depths; in order to rise to sublime heights.

Would it not be wrong to impose your shortcomings on such young and frail shoulders? I trust, at least, that Miss Amelia shall never desert you as I have— though it is not my place to pity her.

Regards,

Micolash K.

Headmaster of the School of Mensis

 

P.-S.: Do not be alarmed at the sudden change of hands. I have hired a new messenger; the last one fell ill.

[The penmanship looks as controlled as usual. There is something wrong about it, yet the eye cannot see.]

 

15th of —, 1877

 

Dear Micolash,

It has been months since last I had news from you.

Rumours are ever-present in the Upper Ward. You know — you remember — how things were, and yet you have not seen how malicious it has become. I am surrounded by incompetence and deceit, and there is scarcely anything I can do to prevent the worm from eating the fruit within which it writhes. I am not blaming you, nor your School, or your endeavours. Yet I do hope that what came to my ears recently is only the result of fanciful delusions. I choose not to give these back-alley whispers any sort of credit for now. You have never been fond of lies, and I have often mocked you for your almost candid attachment to sincerity. Now, I am pleading for this trait not to have been poisoned by the foretaste of higher planes. I am counting on you to tell me the truth upon the matter:

Are you or any member of your institution responsible for the abductions that have occurred since the month of March?

What would I tell Amelia, should she inquire about it? At times, she comes to me and asks if you will ever return. I fear she might know that your departure is a harsher scar than I ever anticipated.

Regardless: I wish you would write back.

Regards,

Laurence

[The letter paper itself seems to be cold and formal. It bears the signs of having been crumpled in a fist, only to have been smoothed flat again. Though the trace remains.]

 

2nd of —, 1877

 

Headmaster,

I am afraid to take your silence for what it is not. Is there guilt to be found within this absence? Or is it merely an oversight on your part — as uncharacteristic as it would be of you, our friendship is what prompts me to write once more before having to unleash authority upon you. We both know how resentful you would be, and I wish not to put such an abrupt end to our correspondence.

The Church cannot spare another month.

Regards,

Vicar Laurence

[Where one would have expected a measure of urgency, there is none to be found. Only an expected tilt and not a blot of ink.]

 

18th of —, 1877

 

Vicar,

There is no need to explain ourselves further. As I have told you, our School has its methods, and they shall remain secret. Whether you approve of them or not has no bearing on our future. Mensis has freed itself from your holy chains, and you can rest assured that it will not come crawling back to your chalices for nourishment. That you have no taste for our work is understandable; we have none for yours either. Do not beg for me to answer your queries as if we were still under your black-gloved thumb. Were you only able to reach us—

Do not feel obliged to pursue this correspondence if it goes against what you stand for. Though I believe regrets are long overdue.

Regards,

M.

[A sickening, dream-like scent greets the letter’s recipient upon opening. One not accustomed to the sender’s fondness for drugs would only dread to ask.]

 

22nd of —, 1878

 

Laurence,

You know very well that my medical expertise is too meagre to be of any use to you in such a delicate case. Besides, I do not think you would come all the way through here only to have me tell you that you are ill and that I can do nothing about it. I know not how one such as yourself could ever trust me with this— were you not the one who kept chastising me about my own ill-fitting habits? If this is your heart you are worried about, I can only recommend that you seek out Dr. Iosefka. She knows more than I ever could upon the subject. And, as I imagine it is the need of secrecy that brings you to write to me about it; fear not. You could never be placed in safer hands.

Be well,

Micolash

 

P.-S.: Please refrain from using my name if you do consult with Dr. Iosefka. I know not what her feelings towards me are. I have not been in touch since leaving your ranks— she might bear me ill will for reasons that it would not be useful to disclose.

[Traces of perfume remain, as though to conceal something. A few words betray a shaking hand.]

 

12th of —, 1878

 

Dear Micolash,

I know that there is no gratitude to be gained from you in relaying news from the city. I know also that you’d rather not hear of them at all, for I remember how quick your mind is to reject distractions. Alas, there are some that you should be made aware of.

My health is not faring so well, as you might have surmised from my previous letters. Something is eating at me, and I am not certain whether it is my heart or something else entirely. The blood does manage to soothe the pain — however distasteful it is to you, I do believe a strong will is quite enough to stave off its most undesirable effects. Following your advice, I have arranged to see Dr. Iosefka as soon as both of us are able. The current state of affairs being what it is, I would not be surprised to learn that she has even less time to spare than I do. To be quite honest with you, I find some relief in her tireless work. Amelia has been showing signs of distress as of late and I can only wish for her to take the rest I cannot allow her. She is so young, and yet starting to look as withered as us: the dark circles under her eyes appear centuries old. I dare hope you are less of a slave-driver with your own cohorts, but I know very well that it is yourself who is to take the toll of your obsessions.

The Knight worries me as much. I know you have never taken to each other well. Your characters are too far opposed to be made good use of together. For once, I might admit that I am glad to know you are out of our reach. Could you see how irritated, how quick to fits of anger he has become! He takes to the sword with so much more ferocity than he used to. Although I wish for nothing more but to reject the possibility of blood-drunkenness — he is of too noble a character, I thought, to fall victim to its spell — I have no choice but to acknowledge that which lies before me.

I am afraid we shall soon run out of time. I pray that we could both be right and reach the truth, though I know it is not possible with so much empty space separating our minds. You were right to say that there is no room for regrets anymore in the world we have been carving at slowly and steadily. The tea has grown cold, yet I raise a cup to better times, be they behind or ahead of us.

Yours truly,

Laurence

 

[This note shows a handwriting more uneven than usual, as though stretched by an external influence. It bears the weight of an afterthought.]

 

29th of —, 1879

 

Vicar,

There is a new man in our midst— your name was part of his formal introduction. It felt odd to hear it uttered by another voice. Here you are but a colourless whisper. Seeing it suddenly regain its warm tones had something of an effect. There were days when the memory of your existence slipped away altogether. Yet your presence shall be shoved back into our walls. Should we stop saying the Vicar’s name with an ounce of respect, and treat it as a curse?

M.

 

[A letter retrieved in the Vicar’s personal papers. Though still written in the rival Headmaster’s hand, it exudes a faint, uncharacteristic warmth.]

 

[Undated]

 

Laurence,

I remember you asking me long ago, and yet I never told you. The colour of your voice.

You might think it a deep shade of red, dark and thick and oozing as your beloved holy blood. Or the green of your eyes and your vanity. I dare say you will find my answer to be disappointing. If your humour remains as dry as our old parchment-skinned headmaster, I know already which sort of smile to picture on your face. Have you only aged a day since last we spoke in person? You looked as though you had never left Byrgenwerth; youthful and too regal; wrapped in that skin-tight mask you call a face. Is that what it gives, to make a deal with what you think is a god? ‘Tis always vanity, with you: a venomous serpent wearing silk and lace. Poison at the tip of your tongue. None of your parishioners the wiser— how does it feel to be a lie, I wonder.

The voice I hear when you speak to me is a sullen blue. Picture the shade of my eyes and darken it. Then, please, do your utmost to forget that colour exists. There is no coming back from where I am headed.

Your friend,

Micolash K.

 

[While the calligraphy is unmistakably Vicar Laurence’s, its usual sense of immaculate control has faded. There is an odd, angular sliver of savagery in the way some words have been written.]

 

9th of —, 1879

 

Dear Micolash,

I consulted with Doctor Iosefka, only to learn that I am on the cusp of beasthood myself. I pressed her not to tell Amelia any of it, for I could not bear the disappointment in the young one’s eyes if she were to peer into mine and see someone else.

Seeing as the Knight seems to be himself less and less, I dare not place my trust in him. His eyes are strange when he looks at my face, and I know very well what conflict plays out within them. His devotion is what keeps him human, but I am afraid the taste of hatred grows sour in his mouth. It is, after all, the blood that is to blame for what he is going through — the blood and its relentless herald, who risks losing himself also. It is unclear how much time there is still for me to live as a man. The Choir seems so feeble an endeavour, now. A cure has to be found, and yet I fear these are not my hands that will hand it to the good people of Yharnam. I know not if I wish for Amelia to shoulder the burden in my stead.

You, on the other hand, are too far removed to care. Can we still call each other friends? We have always shied away from the term, or any other expression of sincere affection. I hand them to you now, should this letter be my last. I have not prayed for so long. Not with these shaking fingers that write to you so pitifully. I shall pray once this message is sent, if only to thank the Gods that you are not here to see how weak I am. I could not bear to have your gaze upon me.

Would you look at me with disgust in your eyes?

Yours,

Laurence

[A torn scrap of letter paper retrieved in the Vicar’s office. The Headmaster’s handwriting, liquid-like, is barely recognisable.]

 

[Undated]

 

To whom it may concern,

Here we be, seeing you in opium-coloured dreams. Lying down and smoking your incense essence from a pipe and catching the sound of your voice in blue vapours. Delightful (?) haze takes over body and mind and matter. Taste is off— is it that of your mouth that incinerates ours? Burnt hand on oil lamp. Smells of you and not-you. Cannot know which one it is;

Why does She speak with your words on the beach? The colour is all wrong.

A cosmos on the ceiling; swirls a diseased green

Do your bones glow at night?

[A typewriter has been used and its neat, even letters are perfectly aligned. The paper bears no scars, but a nose sharp enough would recognise the metallic thrum of blood.]

 

11th of —, 1880

 

Dearest Micolash,

Do forgive me for committing my words to a machine, as I know you’d prefer the shape of my own hand. I am, alas, unfit to write. My right hand is not itself anymore. I shall spare you the gruesome details, as enough of my entourage is plagued by the sight and scent of it. Dr. Iosefka would tend to me if only I asked, but I cannot bring myself to, knowing that she has many more patients to treat. You might wonder what has become of the selfish man you have known for years. He dwells within me still, rest assured. Only it would not do for a leader to show himself as such. Amelia is kind enough to provide me with relief, and the good doctor’s treatments alleviate the pain considerably. I shall not speak of the Knight.

It is only a matter of time before the scourge takes us all — and if not, something else, utterly beyond this world. The clock is ticking and it is not my hands that are dictating the flow of time. Not anymore. Would it be yours, I am not certain there would be a different outcome for me. Yet, as irksome as it was, I remember your face with fondness all the same. I wonder if you look better than I do.

I wonder if we shall see each other again.

Yours,

Laurence

[This letter was retrieved by the Healing Church in the late Vicar’s empty ceremonial coffin. It smells of smoke and chemicals.]

 

25th of —, 1880

 

Vicar Dearest Laurence,

You would envy how clear our sight has grown. The good eye sings to us; whether its burn howls in pain is inconsequential. Could you only see what we see hear taste feel upon closing the other.

It happens, once in a while, that her voice pierces the veil. Would you hear her, if you had not chosen to remain blind? Or would you take the plunge head first into the lake, though you disliked each other— her voice sounds unlike itself. Wrong, as is sun-gazing from a lunarium. We went back once, riding upon waves of quicksilver to see what subsisted of the Wretch. The sight of him it sticks in a corner gathering spider-webs. We would drown, if trying to join the sightless spider. Might it not be a suitable outcome— in a better iteration of our world, perhaps. Had it not been overseen by such fickle entities. They are not gods . They are the cosmos inescapable and we choose to embrace it at the cost of what it is that makes us human. You have lost it as well, though not on your own volition. It has been taken from you. Your syringe draws as ours fill.

In dreams, would we be together and young and free again?

 

[Added later: hastily scribbled as though written in a moving carriage]

P.-S.: Seems your funeral came earlier than expected. Please forgive the tardiness. This delayed answer is all we can spare. Pity you shall not hear how the sky over Yahar’gul sounds these days. You would have liked how well it went with the toll of your death-chime.

Pray that your gods have heard you now that the die is cast.

Farewell,

M.