wayfarers_lodge (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wayfarers_lodge) wrote2010-09-01 03:32 am
wayfarers_lodge) wrote2010-09-01 03:32 am
{Echo Bazaar} The Correspondence
They say the Correspondence is what the Letters of Hell were born from. They say it opens things that shouldn't be opened. They say it is the last syllables on the lips of the dying- not the half-death we have here, but the truly dead.
I have always been interested in seeking it out, since my escape. Perhaps it was this that led me back to Fallen London, after my time in New Newgate Prison, and into Ladybones Road, when I am told that all Scholars start.
Both the Provost of Summerset and the Principal of Benthic Universities would be pleased to have me, they say. The'd like me to start lecturing as soon as possible, and to meet at my nearest convenience- I cannot. I am afraid that if I try to speak on it, I will start screaming, and then it will be the Royal Beth for me. I can't handle this, I am not wise enough yet, I must not look any further into this until I am more stable.
They say the Correspondence is the only thing the Masters fear. They say it is scribed in the flights of bats and the dancing of the moonish light. They say it's why there's no foxes in Fallen London.
They say it's the only way to see true starlight down here.
They say there's no way to speak of love in the language of the Correspondence, or of hope. Only pain and fear and madness and greed.
I say I shouldn't look any further, but I know I will. It is learning me as much as I am learning it- it needs to be heard, to be passed from mind to fertile mind. If I do not strive forward in my studies I will be this way forever- moaning into my bottle of laudanum, unable to comprehend the dreams that haunt me, eternally trapped, half a step away from sanity or understanding.
I wonder if I am being played. The Masters know that I know SOMETHING- The Ministry of Public Decency was at my last discussion, asking pointed questions, and now Mr Pages hopes that I will bring him a veritable fortune of forbidden texts, gathered from my brethren. I cannot refuse, it will mean the end of my work. I can only hope that the books will not be destroyed, although I can see the Correspondence liking that- fluttering from its shackled state on wings of fire...
Speaking of fire, I do not doubt that I haven't seen the last of Virginia. That the Brass Embassy has shown such an interest in my work unnerves me. They are in close contact with my friends- the young man that lives in the swamp is being courted by two seperate devils, and who knows what Hell understands of what the libertine who lives above the gambling den sports under its felts. I am afraid- I care for them both very deeply, but they will not hear of the danger. I remember those heady days of being courted by devils, but surely, they must come to understand what comes of dancing at the Brass Embassy balls. They are being used- of that I am sure. Why does Hell care for the Correspondence, and why are they moving through my friends?
They say that the Correspondence is written between the glass and the silver of Mrs Plenty's mirrors. They say it is the last sound that will be uttered when the Bazaar is finally closed down. They say it cannot actually be spoken, only felt and dreamed, and that all pronunciations are only shared hallucinations caused by its highly psychotropic nature.
They say it is the language that God wrote the World in.
They say it is the language that is scribed upon the scrolls of the Apocalypse.
I do not know. I'm not sure that I ever will. But I must sleep. May God save me, because the Correspondence cannot, and the Bazaar will not.
I have always been interested in seeking it out, since my escape. Perhaps it was this that led me back to Fallen London, after my time in New Newgate Prison, and into Ladybones Road, when I am told that all Scholars start.
Both the Provost of Summerset and the Principal of Benthic Universities would be pleased to have me, they say. The'd like me to start lecturing as soon as possible, and to meet at my nearest convenience- I cannot. I am afraid that if I try to speak on it, I will start screaming, and then it will be the Royal Beth for me. I can't handle this, I am not wise enough yet, I must not look any further into this until I am more stable.
They say the Correspondence is the only thing the Masters fear. They say it is scribed in the flights of bats and the dancing of the moonish light. They say it's why there's no foxes in Fallen London.
They say it's the only way to see true starlight down here.
They say there's no way to speak of love in the language of the Correspondence, or of hope. Only pain and fear and madness and greed.
I say I shouldn't look any further, but I know I will. It is learning me as much as I am learning it- it needs to be heard, to be passed from mind to fertile mind. If I do not strive forward in my studies I will be this way forever- moaning into my bottle of laudanum, unable to comprehend the dreams that haunt me, eternally trapped, half a step away from sanity or understanding.
I wonder if I am being played. The Masters know that I know SOMETHING- The Ministry of Public Decency was at my last discussion, asking pointed questions, and now Mr Pages hopes that I will bring him a veritable fortune of forbidden texts, gathered from my brethren. I cannot refuse, it will mean the end of my work. I can only hope that the books will not be destroyed, although I can see the Correspondence liking that- fluttering from its shackled state on wings of fire...
Speaking of fire, I do not doubt that I haven't seen the last of Virginia. That the Brass Embassy has shown such an interest in my work unnerves me. They are in close contact with my friends- the young man that lives in the swamp is being courted by two seperate devils, and who knows what Hell understands of what the libertine who lives above the gambling den sports under its felts. I am afraid- I care for them both very deeply, but they will not hear of the danger. I remember those heady days of being courted by devils, but surely, they must come to understand what comes of dancing at the Brass Embassy balls. They are being used- of that I am sure. Why does Hell care for the Correspondence, and why are they moving through my friends?
They say that the Correspondence is written between the glass and the silver of Mrs Plenty's mirrors. They say it is the last sound that will be uttered when the Bazaar is finally closed down. They say it cannot actually be spoken, only felt and dreamed, and that all pronunciations are only shared hallucinations caused by its highly psychotropic nature.
They say it is the language that God wrote the World in.
They say it is the language that is scribed upon the scrolls of the Apocalypse.
I do not know. I'm not sure that I ever will. But I must sleep. May God save me, because the Correspondence cannot, and the Bazaar will not.