benthic_university | Correspondence Scholarship, Class Three [Tuesday Morning, June 24th]

This week, The Academic was on time for their own class. They’d cleared the chalkboards, refilling them with an extensive list of symbols. Though each clearly corresponded to The Correspondence, not one was scarcely more complex than the radicals they’d learned last week.

“While technically correct, you will almost never see any of these symbols on a plaque or temple wall. We’re still one step away from proper symbols." The Academic stepped away from the display, inviting the eyes of the students to begin to roam over the writing." But put your goggles on now, and look! You can see it now, can’t you?”

a white-haired figure gestures

Not all of the symbols were rendered in plain white chalk. Every tenth symbol or so, there were tinges of something else, something reddish, or violet, or-

The Academic smacked the dust from their claws. “Yes, there is a touch of violant pigment in some of the chalk. I’m making very, very sparse use of it, in order to assist you in memorization of these patterns and connections. Under regular circumstances, it would take a scholar roughly a year of back-breaking expeditions to The Forgotten Quarter, or Bazaar Back-Alley deals to find and collect scraps of symbols from under the watchful eye of the government.” The Academic clasped their hands behind their back. “Don’t try to memorize it. Simply take your time with it, as you might glance at a broadsheet on your way to the green grocer.”

It wasn’t impossible to look away from. These symbols were laced with neither compulsion nor trickery. If anything, it was little more than a word search. There was no need to read from right to left, when the pattern is as interesting upwards, or diagonal.

But the longer you look, the less the symbols seem to be aligned into strict rows and columns. The entire thing feels convex. But that can’t be right, because each one is right above the other. Some on either edge of the entire grid have more in common with one another than the ones that are next to them. But why does the noun for “light” have so much in common with the verb for “to commit violence?” Why is your stomach so tight? How does your gut balance that with the satisfying scratching under the surface of your skull, the itching sated again and again by noting which symbols connect to which ones connect to which ones connect to which-

A snap as wood clatters against wood. You aren’t done when The Academic pulls down a second layer of boards, filled with another grid. But when you glance at the wall, over an hour of the class’ time has fled into the void of the past. That feels wrong both ways. You’d only just looked up. But you’d also been playing for days. Playing? Yes, of course. If it hadn’t been fun, you would’ve looked away. But your mind feels as though you’ve finished solving a fiendishly tricky puzzle. Indeed, as you look back to the new symbols, you’re about to connect new information. You’re not just looking.

You’re reading.

The Academic clapped their hands, startling any new reveries before they began. “You may wish to stretch your legs before diving into the next set. These ones shouldn’t take quite as long, but you’ve already been working very hard.”

Faces stirred around the classroom, the other students managing to blink. Each stirring snap of eyelids knocked tears loose to stream down their faces, landing and pooling in the cups of their goggles.

Oh. There was a tickling sensation on your cheek, and a coldness at the rim of your googles. You too.

Perhaps that break wasn’t such a bad idea.

Once everyone had a good chance to stand up, get a good drink in and a good cry out, The Academic reconvened class.

“This is applied use of The Correspondence. Heavier usage of violant pigment can force a reader to recall certain words, and there are ways to inscribe symbols in a way that conveys, conducts, or enhances meaning.” The Academic gestured back to the board. “This grid system invites the reader to draw connections, and the use of the faintest dash of violant helps the mind to hold onto important information while continuing to read. This effect is only temporary, but the best study happens when you are able to begin employing the symbols on your own terms. Perhaps the effect could be made permanent if I’d written the entire thing with a stronger shade of violant...” The Academic clucked their tongue against their teeth. “But I’m not looking to burn my readings on these symbols into your mind. It’s much better for me to pass on what I know as a foundation, and to get you building your own voices as quickly as possible.” They tapped their boot on the stone floor, and lifted an eyebrow. “If we wanted everyone to simply agree with me, we might as well throw me into a Rubbery vat and attempt to make copies. But your perspectives are valuable. Irreplaceable. Don’t forget that, while you look at the next set of boards."

As before, the end of class came before anyone was quite done. The Academic rolled up each and every board, spiriting the grids out of sight.

“That’s it. Don’t ask for any more time with them. The correspondence can be highly addictive, but looking at these grids won’t teach you anything else you don’t already know. If you’ve still got the itch, look over your study materials this week. Next week you’ll begin writing in earnest.”

The Academic gripped their lectern. “You may be experiencing the dread beginning to overtake you. This is normal. Learning languages opens up new ways of thinking. Learning The Correspondence opens up venues of cognition man was not meant to know.” Claws adjusted their monocle, like fingers worrying at a cuff. “And the speed with which you have all broken new ground this week will be…trying. Your sleep tonight will be unpleasant. That is one side effect of studying The Correspondence. Thus, you have two homework tasks this week. First-“ The Academic added this to an empty chalkboard, “-write down one of your nightmares. Especially if a particular vision proves to be recurring. You don’t need to do anything but be aware of it. If a dream repeats, there is a kernel of truth in it, and it’s better to be aware of what it’s telling you.

Second assignment: get rid of the nightmares.” The Academic underlined this, twice. “If they get worse, you’ll be forced to take a stay in hospital, and that will get in the way of your studies, and effectively waste MY time, too. So. Find something soothing. A good meal, time spent with someone you think you can trust, several bottles of opiates. I don’t care what you use, so long as it works. You don’t need to bring it into class; I’ll be able to look in your eyes next week and tell. Anyone who comes into class with a haggard and haunted look will…” The Academic looked from face to face, then smiled.

“…not receive homework points!” They tossed their chalk back to the lip beneath the chalkboard. “That, of course, is all the punishment which I care to offer. If you choose to ignore my warning, then tonight you will immediately receive a somewhat more natural incentive.” They took up a rag and an atomizer of their own, before promptly beginning to clean the chalkboards.

“Class dismissed!”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

theanachronistictailor

When had the Tailor last cried? They had made it a point not to, hadn't they? Turned fear and pain into anger and fuel. Turned sobs into snarls. Crying was weakness. It exposed cracks.

Looking away from the board, they were overcome with a feeling of revulsion. Their mind was unable to control what their body was doing, but it registered humiliation. The tears, the ragged breathing that bordered on weeping, combined with the lack of sleep and the sneer of a grin from the Devil and the anger and panic of trying to deal with damage control, and all of it in a public setting, where they would be seen and judged and recognized as not at all good enough--

--it was all too much. Far, far too much.

They stood and nearly stumbled over their chair, which loudly scraped across the floor and clattered aside. Bag abandoned on the desk, they edged back, and then turned and fled into the storage closet they had found on their first class. The door slammed behind them and they pressed their back to it, sliding down to push their goggles off their face, press their face into their hands, and muffle it all behind their knees.

The tears just wouldn't stop. Like they'd been boiling for a while, just waiting for a valve to release. They kept flowing, and the sobs were inescapable. And they knew it was only more humiliating, bawling like they were just some stupid child, and that made things worse.

Edited Date: 2025-06-24 06:09 pm (UTC)

From:

theexdisgracedacademic

Hmmm. That wasn’t good. The Academic wasn’t about to intrude or- heaven forbid- ask a student about their feelings. But it would be bothersome if The Tailor’s mind had undertaken too much.

If they didn’t come out of there by the time the others were mostly packed up, The Academic would get out the first aid kit.

From:

theliedpiper

Piper was barely lucid after their own stint with the blackboard. Or maybe they were more lucid than usual, because they knew, they knew, that following a crying Tailor was a bad idea.

(Maybe they weren't even friends. Maybe the nightmares were right. Maybe it was dark and empty and alone and no one was coming no one was coming no one was coming no one was--)

They burst into the closet and crumpled to the floor.

"Sorry," they gasped out, before tearing off their cloak and tossing it at the Tailor. They would think it was hideous, but it was soft, and hopefully comforting. "Blanket. Good for shock. I think. Um. I'll. Try to shut up now. I'd leave you alone but. My legs. Don't. Want to move. Ha ha."

Hopefully the darkness and their mask hid the fact that they were crying, too.

From:

theanachronistictailor

The door being shoved open pushed the Tailor away from behind it, and like that they were on their side on the floor in the corner, still barely able to breathe. They gasped quietly, hands braced flat against the ground, trying to push themself up to sitting, but there was no real strength in their arms.

The push didn't stop the tears or clear their head, but it jostled them enough to try to force silence. Every sob that tried to bubble up became caught in a tight throat. Bared teeth. Come on. Be stronger. Be better.

God, they were so tired. They gripped the horrible cloak and pressed their soaked face into it.

Shock. Ha. Was that what it was?

Well. At least they weren't the only one falling apart, although it was of little comfort. Eventually, the Tailor pushed themself up to lean heavily against the shelves. They sniffled angrily and scrubbed at their eyes with the cloak. Tried to look at it through wet lashes. Was their breathing finally evening out?

"When-" their throat was thick, "-when did you last clean this?"

From:

theliedpiper

"Um." A long pause. An uncomfortably long pause. It was only half because they were sniffling. "You probably. Don't want me to answer that."

Their muscles relaxed a little, though. Maybe they'd screwed up by trying to help in such a pathetic way, but the Tailor's voice wasn't biting. That was enough for now.

Of course, the terrible, horrible, unforgettable lucidity lingered, and they knew - they knew that their desire to help wasn't all magnanimous. It never was. They wanted the comfort, they just couldn't bear to lose one of the few people they actually remembered--

But why would anyone stay? What good did the Piper do for anyone? Spilling secrets and begging for attention and forgetting to reciprocate even the most banal kindness--

They hoped the cloak-blanket was helping, at least. And they tried to push down the selfish thought that they should've kept it to cry into themself.

From:

theanachronistictailor

Maybe a little more themself--if only barely--the Tailor grimaced, but they rubbed their eyes again without argument. There was another hard wet sniff. They did a disgusting childish thing and snorted deep, clearing their nose into their throat and then swallowing. Eugh. They cleared their throat.

"Th'Maven's askin' for us," they got out, exhausted. Their eyes would not stop, every blink only dislodged more tears, and they were tired of the phlegm in their throat and the wetness on their face, and embarrassment was growing along with a throbbing headache. They tried to sit up, but swayed and leaned back again, hand lifting to press to their forehead. "God. M'so b____y tired. 'Aven't slept 't'all this week."

After a belated pause, they made it more upright, knees to chest. They rubbed at their face, and wearily thrust the cloak back at the Piper without looking at them.

"Sh's probly still got scones."

Honestly? Maybe they could do with a scone right now. Mostly a glass of water would be preferred. But a scone couldn't hurt.

From:

theliedpiper

"Scones. Scones would be good." The Piper nodded.

They didn't put the cloak back on, instead gathering it in their arms and hugging it like some kind of stuffed animal. Even if the Tailor had gotten snot all over it, it probably wasn't any worse for wear.

It was going to be okay. They were going to be okay. They always were.

From:

themorbidsocialite

Upon calming, the Morbid Socialite stood from his seat and moved to the back of the room, to the closet door that had slammed closed just moments prior. They leaned against the wall, hopefully giving the Tailor room to breathe still, holding their own arms close and breathing slowly. "Tailor," he started, trying to avoid any cracking of his own voice. "It is, perhaps, foolish to ask this, but are you okay? Do you need..." The Socialite paused and reconsidered his words, slowly sliding down the wall until he was seated on the floor, uncaring about how his coat and pants were getting dusty. "Would you like some sympathetic company? Separated by the wall and door, of course."

From:

theanachronistictailor

They couldn't stop crying. They didn't even want to be crying, but every time they tried to inhale, it came in as a gasp.

You stupid child, pull yourself together! Why was it so difficult?

They could hear the Socialite through the door, clearly trying to be gentle, and the humiliation burned hot and bright again. They struck the ground with their fist. The pain helped to center them. But the tears continued to stream.

Focus, please focus. They were so, so tired. "I-" oh, their throat sounded terrible. They tried again to take in air. "I don't want to-" They rubbed at their eyes with the sleeve of their coat, to little avail. "I can't make it stop."

Pathetic. It was pathetic. They hated that it was so pathetic.

From:

themorbidsocialite

The Morbid Socialite held back a chuckle, knowing even one in empathy could be misconstrued. Instead, in a soft voice with a slightly more Northern accent than most heard him, he hummed. "I don't think anyone can stop it. I certainly can't. But... I think I understand. Not exactly manly or dapper or charmin' or... or sturdy to be caught blubberin'. Now, I'm going to do this in a- a somewhat straightforward manner. You can talk about what's had you tense all mornin'. Or I can keep talking, take your mind off the stress and the tears. Or we can be silent an' I can shoo off any onlookers, seein' as we're both out of sorts. Your choice, love, but I'm not leavin' you to suffer this alone. You don't have to be alone..." It was a genuine promise, the most honest he'd been in almost a month.

From:

theanachronistictailor

Unseen, the Tailor shuddered. Their eyes were beginning to hurt, and kindness without cost was mostly unfamiliar to them. It wasn't that people weren't kind, or even that they always wanted something from the Tailor for it, but it came, always, with the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I-" another pull for air, still a little ragged. "I 'aven't been sleepin' well," they finally got out, formal English lost. It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't a lie. "S' m'work. An'-" they choked a little around this next bit, "th'other night. Saw a man."

A man with eight fingers. With shiny buttons. Thinking about him made it hard to breathe again.

"Please. Somefin' else, iffin you can. Jus' for a bit. N' I'll be better." Their voice was still a wobbly thing, and they reached into their daycoat to pull out a handkerchief with shaking fingers to blow their nose and dab at their eyes.

From:

themorbidsocialite

The Socialite nodded, even unseen. He leaned back, trying to think of something, anything, to help this poor kid through. "Y'know, my spouse came back from a huntin' trip a couple nights back. Found me in a right state, I was. Hadn't slept, hadn't showered, even my wife was tired of me. But they came back and we spent the night jus' talkin'. About this and that and the other. And, eventually, it got around to health. My spouse and I, we have some bad habits that'd turn ye blue. They'd asked how much honey I'd been usin', I said a spoonful a night. They asked how much real sleep I'd gotten, I said an hour before the honey. They asked if I'd seen our wife at all or anyone 'sides who I had to by obligation, I said I'd only been voluntarily out of the flat one day that week. Then they asked me... They asked 'What're you keeping yourself from feeling?' And it threw me. I hadn't even thought about the fact I'd been lyin' to myself. 'Emotions are there to tell you to pay attention,' they said. 'Like my hunting, even the feeling of being watched can prove to be true. Fear has a reason, sadness has a reason, anger has a reason. You're stressed, you're snippy, nearly bit my head off for coming in with a bloody cloak.'" The Socialite paused their impression of their spouse to chuckle at the memory. "'So, Maury, what're you struggling to notice? What animal is tracking behind you you're ignoring?' And I thought about it. I sat with it. I listened to myself. And I remembered how to breathe. And I remembered how to cry. And my spouse, my Enoch, just sat with me, no pity, no judgement, just sat and let me remember how to feel."

The Socialite held his hands together, considering them. "I don't know what yer goin' through, love, but tryin' to stuff it down, hide it all, even from yourself... It's not a good way to live. I don't have t' know what happened. But I'll sit with you, no pity, no judgement, until you remember how to feel. Just like I'd do for my little girl, just like my love did for me. We have a while before the rest of class so, please, take a moment and feel?"

Correspondence Scholarship, Class Three [Tuesday Morning, June 24th]

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