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Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi

This letter (unsent) is not the account of the dreams the Soft-Eyed Mycologist had on the night from 24th of June to 25th of June, submitted to the Ex-Disgraced Academic. This letter was penned a few hours before the submitted account was drafted, heavily revised, and finally sealed in an envelope.

Addressed to: My heart

I belong to thee as thou belongst to me, and only to thee as thou only to me. This is not love; it will not save us. It will not condemn us.
Tonight I dreamed of the tomb which is a cradle again, and of thy person. I wish thee entered my dreams again. All I have seen lately is only the shadow of thine. ‘Tis the call of violant, forging the link between what I know that I know and what I know not yet that I know. I remember. My is the colour of memory; thy is the colour unnaming. Should my memory fail me, this letter shall persevere.
We travelled through the endless night. It was cold, as only night knows to be. The ways deep and the wind sharp. The very dead of winter; if I may call it winter, for winter is preceded by autumn and followed by fall. There was no time and no snow. Only the cold wind and the ash.
I had two companions. I knew them well then, but I know them not now. We spoke not, for there was nothing left to say between us. They held my hands, shackles of flesh and bone. I went willingly.
We were sore of feet and minds. We found no rest in laying down, in the ash-snow that melted upon our bodies until it robbed us of all the warmth we had left. Then it no longer thawed. We walked through the last winter after which there was nothing, three bodies as one, breathing and pale as the dead.

I recall reaching the cradle. ‘Twas a depression in stone from which the stars averted its light. The length was of a body and the depth was without an end. Icy water filled it to the brim, with a crust of ash upon its foam.
Within the cold water was not the body of a god. I did not see it and I did not offer a prayer to it, for I know not how to pray to such a god. Even if I knew, there is no god worthy of a prayer.
My chains, my companions, bound me to that tomb, they pushed me into the water. ‘Twas cold, colder than love, colder than life, colder than the night which knows no dawn. But my body was colder still.
The stone around me was a cage from which I knew no escape. Never before had I been submerged for this long. Never before had I known the world above the water’s surface.
My lungs burned, they ached for air.

That was when thou pulledst the cage from the cold water with a great rattling of the chains from which it and I were suspended. I knew this person to be thee and not-thee, for I saw thy face, and I knew within the dream as I know upon waking thou wouldst never bare thyself in such indecency.
My body was cold and naked and ached for thy warmth. I begged this false thee to embrace me. I cried, tears burning through the icy crust on my face.

Thy reflection dropped me back into the black waters of the grave that was no longer there. I knew it to be thy mercy, thy rescue from the nightmare of the tomb and cradle and the journey beyond the end.
I called for thee.
Water filled my lungs. I know well the necessity. Only when I am cold within and without, only then I know how to appreciate thy warmth. Only when my hearts have stopped, I know how to live in thine.

I wish it were thy hands that held me in the cold, dark waters. Thy teeth that tore me apart.

Thine, as always
[the signature is illegible]

Current Location: the Veilgarden

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An Encounter in the Veilgarden, 24th of June

The lights are still bright and the crowds bustle - although for the Veilgarden, this is fairly low traffic. The air is thick with the wine of yesternight, honey, and a mixture of perfumes.
The Soft-Eyed Mycologist is stalking- no not, stalking, he is loitering on the edge of the area. Biding his time. Waiting. He has a pocket watch. He doesn't check it, not even once.
Unlike earlier today, he is not wearing light blue nor teal. The tailcoat is true apocyan and so are the trousers. The waistcoat is silver and white. There is a lapel pin in the shape of a cross, and there is a pair of comfortable yet dashing shoes. They click audibly on the cobblestones and the occasional spark betrays that the soles are reinforced with steel.
Wherein one would expect him to carry a walking stick, all he holds is a parcel of a modest size, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine. It doesn't appear to be heavy.

Current Location: The Medusa's Head

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You have sought out the Soft-Eyed Mycologist

For this or that reason you have sought out the Soft-Eyed Mycologist. Possibly you have met him in a certain "corresponding seminar", possibly you have heard of him in a different context.
Whether you have asked for him at the university (he, apparently, has a dedicated laboratory), knocked on the door of his little office in the back alleys of the Bazaar only to be met by the housekeeper, or tailed him from a small gathering of the Counter-Church in the Spite, you have ultimately ended up in the Medusa's Head.

This is the pub with the best worst reputation in London. The Mycologist sticks out like a sore, well cleaned thumb in flashy blue adorned with jewels. He is draping himself over the shoulders of Burglar of Very Little Consequence, flashing the cards the man is holding with a mirrored brooch to the rest of the impromptu gambling table. As your eyes find him, he cracks a joke which you do not catch, but it leaves the table roaring with laughter. He then excuses himself to the bar. His pot of tea has just arrived.
For a moment the scent of stale beer and cigar-smoke is interrupted with a flash of oriental spices and tea-leaves. Tea. In this pub. Nobody even raises their head.

As the realization that this man is a regular fixture in this establishment dawns upon you, you also note that right now the Mycologist is entirely unaccompanied at the bar. There is no better moment than this to get his attention. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry.