Out of Place, Right at Home [Erudite|Montaine]

[Montaine]

The glassworker followed. He felt oddly conscious of the slapping of his footsteps on the library floor and was acutely aware that he was so very out of place in this world of academia and intellect. The university was at the very heart of his city and yet actually being there, walking through its immaculate corridors, Montaine was struck by how alien it was. Perhaps it was the silence in the library. It was so different from the hustle and bustle of the market road or the docks or the bars at night. There were no fights here, no drunken sailors and bawdy women selling their scantily clad wares on street corners. There was a respectability ingrained into the stone walls of the place that was just absent from the lower parts of the city that made him feel uncomfortable, as though he didn’t belong. Monty looked at the back of the fair doctor’s head, her blonde curls bouncing slightly with each step. She was so far from home, so far from everyone she knew and yet she belonged here in a way he never could. His eyes followed her hair to her neck where he noted the light dappling of Konti scales. She was just as alien as this place, maybe that’s why she seemed so at ease among the towering shelves and creaking books. She hadn’t laughed either. The heads of the gods watched them as they passed. His Da had educated him about their significance as a child, and though few of those lessons had truly sunk in, the stories about their bizarre and immense powers surfaced in the forefront of his mind now. The great portrait of Laviku in the temple overlooking the bay was said to represent the deity, and the prayers spoken there would carry to his ears. Did these busts work in the same way? Did the gods hear each and every word spoken in the university library? Was that why everyone was so quiet? Monty paid little heed to where they actually went, his eyes and mind distracted by his thoughts, but eventually the fair doctor paused, and he almost walked right into the back of her. He caught himself a hair’s breadth from her shoulder and stepped back to regard the shelves. They looked much the same as any other. There were a few tables here and there and no students to be found. Undoubtedly they were off on more intellectual pursuits than reading story books. There were signs on the walls and the shelves and littered about the place reading nonsense to the illiterate craftsman, twirling, curling shapes that were nothing but pretty pictures to his untrained eye. Monty inhaled deeply. The smell of the wood and parchment was intoxicating. It was heady and old and deliciously stale, like the dustiest, mustiest room, so delightfully different from the drink drenched stench of pubs. He couldn’t help but smile, and felt foolish for it. All the more foolish for his next question as he turned to his guide, ‘Would you-would you find me one about sailors?’

[Erudite]

"What could he want from the fiction section?" she pondered, as they neared the section. Her mind laid out the possibilities and began examining each and every one of them. Perhaps he liked stories, or perhaps he was looking for something in particular. She felt like starting up a little conversation about it so she could find out, but shyly decided against it. For a moment, she was reminded of the first time she'd seen him smile. It was a briefly mild electrocution, a surge of warmth and excitement that had her eyes widening and her cheeks burning. She feigned a cough as she felt her cheeks begin to flush, only to have the feeling heighten when she slowed into a halt.

He'd almost bumped into her as they turned to enter the fiction section. His breath blew against her neck and disturbed a portion of her golden locks, causing her to flinch and immediately move towards the nearest book. A blue one caught her eye, and she turned her eyes to scan the bare spine, as if it had text engraved upon it. Blue covers seemed to draw her in most of the time, she assumed it was because it matched the color of her eyes, or perhaps it was because of her attachment to the sea. She glanced over at Monty for a moment, drinking in his features and observing his facial expression. She thought she'd lost that little crush that she'd developed for him when they'd first met, but apparently not. She still felt little tingles when she saw him, she still felt excited to be around him. It was an innocent admiration, nothing more, nothing less.

"Would you-would you find me one about sailors?" he requested, as he turned to look at her. The Konti straightened her back and offered the most sincere smile that she could manage, as she turned away from the young man and began to look for a good one.

"Why sailors?" she inquired casually, as she brought up a pale finger and dragged it against a row of thin leather books. They were all worn and yellow, and seemed to be more like journals. Tapping her chin with her free hand, she plucked out a dusty one with a sailboat engraved on its thick spine.

"I think this is about sailors," she thought out loud, as she prepared to hand it over to Monty. She briefly held it out for him to hold, until she remembered that he couldn't read. Blushing, she quickly brought the book close and opened it out to examine the contents. It appeared to be a diary of sorts, one that was previously owned by a sailor.

"It looks like journal," she commented with a soft hum, turning a couple of crisp pages to view the contents. It wasn't the best of writings, but it was quite interesting. "A sailor's journal, at least, it's written that way," she added with a nod. It must've been a form of storytelling, one that involved the writer speaking in first-person, as if he'd experienced the fiction he was conjuring with his creative mind.

"Shall I read it to you?" she asked softly, hoping that the question would not offend him, "or, would you like me to find something else?"

[Montaine]

A sailor’s journal. Montaine briefly wondered if his sailor kept a journal. Perhaps, if he did, it would mention the curious little boy he had met fourteen years ago. In years to come maybe the diary would be found and exhibited in a library such as this and scholars would read it in search of insight into the workings of people of the glassworker’s time. Though, if the sailor yet lived, he was theoretically immortal. What use was a diary to a historian when the writer was still around to tell you his stories first hand. Then again, he probably didn’t even keep a journal. He had always seemed the sort to be wary of keeping evidence of his past around. It was all the harder to break away from a place, from a problem, if he had a book of all his past misdeeds lying around his cabin. Erudite was still hesitantly holding the book. ‘It sounds perfect,’ he said, feeling the smile brighten on his face, despite his insecurities, ‘If you could read it to me, that’d be, it’d be, I’d be very grateful,’ he paused, mulling over a thought, ‘But could you keep a finger by the word you’re reading, so’s I can see what they look like? Which one’s which an’ all that. It’s just…I never, I didn’t get the chance to read books as a kid ‘n’…’ his voice dwindled until it trailed off entirely. He looked sheepishly down at his shoes. He liked his shoes. They were functional, if a tad tatty. He’d had them a long time and they were comfortable. They were getting a little old now but they had their job and they did it. He knew where he stood with his shoes. Usually, in them. The journal was blue. It was blue like the sea, maybe that’s why the writer had opted for it. The journal had a simple function too, like his shoes. It was there to be read, to provide insight into a world not necessarily of the reader. Certainly most of the College of Scholars wouldn’t know what it was like to wrestle a sail in the midst of a storm. Monty had a function too. He made glass. He was a glassmaker. Glass was what he made and that was his function. Reading was not a part of that and he felt slightly ashamed that he wished so fervently that it was, that he could. He accepted it as irrational, the shame, but it was there all the same. But if he could read, if he could write, then he could do anything. Petching, shyking, petchy shyke shyking petch shykes, this was hard. He took a deep breath, ‘Could you show me how to read it?’