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Found at the house of reknown alchemist Philippe Mordeaux, shortly after his alleged death. The letters are bound by a simple leather cord. The parchment is torn, and in places, spattered with ink, and chemicals....
And blood.
The pages feature drawings, some horrible, the likes of which mankind has never yet seen, the pages are rife with hidden symbolism.
Untie the letters, and begin to read.
But take care--
In the eyes of God, the science is a sin.
Day One:
I have failed; all is lost. I begin now wonder if I shall ever again feel the warm caress of the sun's light, or the gentle breath of the west wind brush the pallid, sunken hollows of my cheeks. Here in this place, devoid of all hope and humanity, I know I will not.
I will die here. Oh, God, I am going to die here.
There is nothing more to say.
Day Two:
A small sliver of the sunshine I so longed to see yesterday made a brief appearance in the casement window as I was attempting to define the properties of a proper panacea. I've told you surely that there has been a breathrough in my translations of the silent book? Grim as my surroundings may be, they certainly are conducive to this work. I must hurry. Time is short--too short! I've not the time to waste on idle musings.
Day Three:
My black mood has returned. I fear I have come up against an impasse--today, the translations elude me, the Mugus Libre a stubborn and unwilling mistress. Every day, she gets sicker. Oh, God, what am I to do when she is gone? Juliana is my life, my soul, my only angel! I cannot--shall not--live without her. I must continue in my research, and God willing, one day I will save her.
Day Four:
Oh, bright stars! I have news of her. She fares no better, but no worse. Upon hearing the news, I couldn't help but stray from my bleak prison. I must see her again, but once, that I may go about my work in peace. A caravan leaves tomorrow, and I shall be aboard. Julie, my angel, I am coming soon.
Day Five:
The day of leaving. I have time but for a short entry. My company left at the sun's first light. I shall be back soon enough, back to this dreary world where all is death and my only hope to trade my happiness for yours. My darling, I--
{Ink spatters dot the page}
I must go.
Day Six:
I write to you today from the back of the caravan I am travelling
amongst--gipsies. Though I find them to be generally of a lower intelligence, my present company is nonetheless very kind, and their society enjoyable. Every night, the same sound greets my ears: a small gipsy voice, raised in song. My dear, it is not so fine as yours. I listen in elation as I think of you, but as always, the darkness of reality clouds my mind. You cannot sing now, and may never again. I swear to you, my darling, I will change this. I will cure you and your own sweet voice will ring throughout the clear night air, resonating to the jealous heavens who wish only to keep you for themselves. I confess myself selfish: You must stay here with me.
Day Seven:
Out in the wide, beautiful world, I find it near impossible to feel as I have so often before, so hopeless, so lost. Tomorrow we reach the city.
Day Nine:
You are so thin! All the hope I felt underneath the open sky vanished at the sight of your wasted face. No worse! Lies, all of it! I must leave you, now, for I see my task is more urgent than ever. I will save you.
I will.
Day Fourteen:
The caravan has been stalled. I regret that my precious time with you has come to a close, and yet, if I do not continue in my research, I fear our separation will be far more permanent. My dearest, it has been three days since I last saw you. Time has never moved so slowly! For your sake, and my sanity, I pray that it will resume its normal course, and I, mine.
Day Fifteen:
I write to you but an hour away from my hovel. Soon I shall be return. Soon it shall all be over.
Day Sixteen:
At this wretched place, so far from where I last saw you, last heard the faint sounds of your bravely beating heart, I begin to comprehend the enormity of the task left to me. I am to create, alone, the alchemical feat others before me have died in attempting. I have no fear for myself, but you, my darling. For when I am gone, what hope have you? No doctor can cure you, nor no witch with her sorcery, nor the tender words of love your anxious father mewls out over your too-still form. But I must try. I have lit a candle beside my bed. It is a fat, evil-smelling taper, and there it will burn until I create for you a cure, or die in the attempt.
Day Seventeen:
Already I the familiar smells of sulfur and the heavy metallic odor of molten lead are the first sensations to greet me with the rise of day. It is amazing how quickly I have slipped into my old life. It is quite different from the calm quietness of your bedside. Danger stalks quietly in the trenches outside of the enclosure, approaches on the eastern winds. I can smell it in the air and feel it as I brush the bare earth from my doorstep. Never fear—it is not for you. No, it cannot be. Though I have met obstacles, I shall continue this project of mine. All will be well yet!
Day Eighteen:
Distillation began today. Riders came in from the north. I asked them for news—they had none.
Day Twenty:
A stray cat chanced upon my doorstep, and I brought the pathetic creature inside as a respite from the coming storm. The clouds are low over the southern horizon and horribly dark. Can this be an omen?
{A few odd pages are inserted in between. Some feature words in an odd language, as yet unidentified. It is certainly no civilized tongue. The majority feature large lists of chemical properties of various metals. The pages are warped and burned-looking--as though something corrosive had been spilled upon them.}
Day Thirty-Four:
Fourteen days of uninterrupted work find me a much happier man. I think I have finally unlocked the secret of the Elixir of Life. So many years taunting me, and yet the answer was there all along, I merely had to look for it. I shall not reveal it to you as my pride begs for the conceit of secrecy. I wish for you to think me clever. I really believe that I shall fly to you on wings of gold for a sheer excess of joy. The storm was no omen at all; or if it was, an omen of joy. For the rains bring forth crops from the earth, and by thence are men fed. My spirit, too, is full—joy at knowing at last, that you will have the life you deserve.
Day Thirty-Five:
I journeyed forth today, looking for a guide in returning to our estate. And as I wandered, I chanced to take a look at some of my fellows who also inhabit this wretched countryside. I had never realized before the plight of those so close to myself. And yet, there they were—living, suffering, dying. There is a plague such as I have never seen in this country, and they lack the resources and the knowledge for even the most basic of remedies. Poor, rude countryfolk, the entire lot. On the roadside lay a little girl. At first, I was unsure—all I was able to see was a huddled mass lying beneath a few rags. In contemplating it, I soon came to the conclusion it wasn’t some farmer’s bundle of refuse but a living human person. At the sight of me, it sat up feebly and spoke. Poor student of languages that I am, I couldn’t understand it’s strange dialect. It was sick, Julie, but it's strange eyes had the same look about them as yours--I see you everywhere! I know what you would have wanted me to do, my darling. I took the poor child back to my pathetic hovel. A drop of my own blood completed the remedy. It works, Julie! My dear, the Elixir works! I shall come to you on the morrow, even if I am forced to run the way myself.
Day Thirty-Six:
{The page is stained and dotted with the faded remnants of the man’s weeping. The writing is nearly illegible.}
All is ashes.
Julie, my angel, I am so sorry.
Day Thirty-Eight:
I look at your face—I can hardly stand to look upon it, it has changed so.
What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done? I have killed you; your death is on my hands. They say that the dead return to curse their murderers! Haunt me, but please, return! I cannot survive in this place where you are not. I cannot live without you.
Day Forty-Five:
I write to you from the brink of despair. Soon, I shall fall to this bleak depression. I cannot live without my angel here to guide me, and so I shall die. It is arranged. I die by my hand, as you did. I was too late, oh God! To sacrifice your life in the hope of curing some peasant child, Julie, it is unbearable! For you know, surely, that had I arrived on the day I had planned, I could have saved you yet? I do not blame the child, but myself. It is my own folly that has killed you, and sent me to hell.
Day Forty-Seven:
I leave to my worthy nephew all my worldly possessions, having been deprived of an heir upon the death of my daughter, Juliana Victoria Mordeaux. To my housekeeper, I bequeath the sum of one thousand francs, to cover services rendered during the course of my daughter’s illness. My wretched work shall follow me to my grave!
Day Forty-Eight:
{Flecks of dried blood have coloured the parchment from its yellowish tone to a rust-brown. It is almost entirely drenched. The writing is faint and smudged. Ink splotches appear more frequently than words.}
It is odd, that I should never see the unearthly connections except in this, my last moments on earth. I am your murderer—but not in the way I should have thought! My God, they had all warned me terrible things would happen if I took up the study of the Earth’s science. But not this! When you became sick, I blamed it on fate, your delicate constitution, but never the nature of my work! God has punished me by depriving me of my one joy—my own sweet daughter! It is true, what they say. Alchemy is cursed! It is cursed! I am—
Julie, my darling, I am coming.
{The letters end. However, at the back of the bundle is a faded sheet of leather, featuring what looks like words arranged in a sort of poem. They have been burned into the makeshift tablet. The tablet is faded and stained—much more than the parchment, the residue of a thousand chemicals, a thousand attempts at transmutations, the blood of a thousand alchemists screaming out from every pore. It is old, more so than the letters. Pinned to the bottom is a note in a foreign hand—an ally of Mordeaux’s?}
In the eyes of God, the science is a sinne.
Eat of the fruit of the tree to gain knowledge.
But take heed, all who dare venture beyond the edge of humanity—
The knowledge of God is not easily won,
Nor so Divine wrathe easily escaped.
All those who dare eat of the tree shall find not comfort, but black despair.
{The note reads: My friend, I weep for you.}
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