theanachronistictailor | In a quiet tea shop...

In a quiet tea shop...

On Saturday, an hour before proper tea time, the Anachronistic Tailor arrives at Beatrice's Tea Shoppe to find a table that is slightly out of the way. Close to the corner of the room, just away from one of the windows that let light pour into the rest of the tearoom. They sit in the chair closer to the corner, which allows them to face the tearoom and all who enter and exit it.

The table is prepared with a tray of scones and sandwiches, but the Tailor insists quietly to the servers to wait on serving the tea itself. They are waiting for company. If that company does not arrive, they will take tea fifteen minutes after--but it would be improper to let the pot over-steep or, heaven forbid, grow cold.

For now, they take water, and they have a book with them, but one eye is on the door. They've sent an invitation to a friend, but only time will tell if that friend chooses to come.

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They did not look up from the cup when they asked, with an almost childlike shyness, "What was it like? On the Surface?"

It was a potentially exposing question, if one actually care to look--if one didn't get caught up in the answer, on the complex relationship they might have had with the world Up There in the light, and all the good and bad it possessed, then one might ask themself, shouldn't the Tailor know?

Their grip on the handle of the cup was tight. They still would rather ask. People around them would talk about the Sun as a thing to miss, or would talk about the world out there being more judgemental, and all they knew was here. London. Home. And sometimes it felt so small. It felt so often like something was missing, like they were trapped in a box. Was this really freer than Up There?

The Socialite considered, considered the implications of the question and what the Tailor might want in an answer. His thumb ran along the top of the handle of the cup, feeling the bumps and curves over and over. "Well, it's... complicated. The Surface is everything like the Neath and yet nothing at all like it. People will always be people, I'm afraid. We bring with us our prejudice, our fear, our hopes, our entire lives. There are likely plants and animals that seem alien to you that would be perfectly normal to us. The seasons are different, but quite similar. The world is wider, but somehow less varied. The society we built up above is mirrored in different ways down below. For every person of every origin, the Surface and the Neath are different. Freedom in some aspects means limitations in others. There exist strange and unknowable leaders. There exist intolerable, confusing laws. There exist shops and bazaars, urchins and gentlemen, socialites and tailors. The water is somewhat safer, but only somewhat. Language is strange, but how strange is a language that creates licks of fire? The only true difference is the sun. The sunlight is warm and burning and frigid and distant and everwatchful. It lights the world in vivid colors, when the fog and rain doesn't obscure it. But, even then, you can tell the difference between day and night. The light is near constant, save for the fluctuating hours of night. Even then, the moon carries some of the burden and the stars the rest. The Neath and the Surface are very alike."

The Socialite cleared their throat. "Of course, feel free to ask more specific questions. I do not mind talking of it. It helps to put the experiences here into perspective, one might think."

There it was, that Sun again. The Sun, the Sun, always the thing people returned to. What was so wonderful about light? Light exposed, and even in the Socialite's words, watched. The Tailor was reminded of the thing in their dream: light that saw and judged. Bright and blinding and something to be hated.

(But that was a dream. That couldn't be a Sun.)

"If they're not so different," the Tailor said darkly, more to themself than to the Socialite, "then why come down here at all?"

They realized belatedly they'd spoken aloud, and the cup nearly clattered when the Tailor looked up quickly, nearly stumbling to correct, "That was rhetorical, of course!"

The Socialite hummed and nodded, only a momentary surprise at the outburst that quickly faded into understanding. Their smile was patient, giving, warm. "Despite its rhetorical nature, I would like to answer the question, if I may. If you'd allow me to." He wouldn't overstep his bounds. If the Tailor truly did not want the question answered, he wouldn't answer it. But if there were room for expansion of the mutually considered idea...

Caught off guard at the open expression, the Tailor nodded quietly. "By all means." They set their cup down altogether, hands pressed to their lap, still a little flustered at their own outburst. That the Socialite was willing to answer such a thing was... well, they didn't know what it was.

Nice, mostly.

"Why come down here at all... I believe it may be different for everyone. For some, they landed here in the Fall. For others, it was the very idea of freedom from what was known on the Surface, even if they knew not what such freedom looked like. For more, it was simply a punishment to fit the crime of being outcast. For my wife, it was loneliness. For my spouse, it was glory. For me... The Neath has different freedoms and limitations than the Surface. That does not make either better inherently, but it does provide opportunities for those who would seek it. For those that choose to come down here, a closed door may mean an open window. Certainly, we are a people now deathly allergic to direct sunlight, who live in a world where we may not drink the rain water and should never consume the snow, where a monster stalks the night and hunts its hunters, where a serial killer is undying and there are words that burn our eyes. But there are colors we would never have otherwise seen. There are species of flora and fauna both that do not exist on the Surface. We can take genders and sexes beyond man and woman and change our bodies with Shapeling Arts until they fit. A hundred new drugs, a thousand new books, and a great zee to explore."

The Socialite took a sip of tea. "There is something darkly beautiful about the Neath that the world above cannot hope to attain that humanity, in their endless curiosity, is drawn to. It is exploration and novelty personified. It is boundless possibility and experimentation without true judgement. What is the cost of a scandal? A week or a month in the Tomb Colonies? Certainly, yes, we have brought our own judgement to the Neath, but what worth is the judgement of man against man and in the dark where no god is wise to our actions?"

The cup hit the saucer with a soft noise and the Socialite looked back up, eyes bright. "Dear Tailor, I can to the Neath with a singular goal in mind, in a time when I had nothing, not even hope, just a bare desperation. And, in the Neath, I found love, a home, and a world begging to be known just as it wants to know us. And, with luck, I would hope to have found a friend as well."

What to say to that?

The Tailor loved the Neath. London itself they were at best ambivalent to, but the Neath? The Neath was everything. For all the reasons the Socialite said, yes, but beyond the things the Tailor took for granted, like Jack, like the rain and snow, like the opportunity to present and dress and identify as they liked--these were all so regular to the Tailor that it hardly even registered they were special at all. But the Neath itself; big, begging to be explored, dark and expansive and theirs. Stories and secrets to be found if they could just get off this little piece of rock and go.

They met the Socialite's bright gaze. Finally, they had found something that was mutually understood.

"...a friend who can trust you with only some of them?" they asked quietly, turning the Socialite's earlier words back. "Would that still be alright?"

The Socialite undoubtedly recognized their own verbage and chuckled. "Of course. I would always accept your friendship, no matter how bare and honest, if you'll accept mine."

Their smile was warm, glowing brilliantly in the dim light outside the window, reflecting golden like the tea before them. Was this sunlight? Not the true light of the sun, but the poetic metaphor that prose enjoyed droning on about. The glow that sat on the hair of a lover or the glimmer that passed the eyes of a child. The light that causes a shimmer on the surface of water, the dappled light that danced through leaves they'd never seen, the pride of a father cast upon the sight of their joy in life. It was in a smile that reached the eyes and the laugh that rang like bells and the open, honest way of talking and the inviting look that said there would always be a place at the table. Maybe that was what the poets meant, when they said they missed the sunlight. Maybe they really missed all the people that brought it.

The Morbid Socialite- Mori- raised his cup in a toast. "To new friendships, to partial honesty, and to open windows."

Warmth, and kindness, a kind of smile that meant your presence itself was welcome and appreciated. The Tailor had only seen it cast in their own direction a few times in their life. Not often enough. They'd grown to presume they didn't need it. And perhaps they still didn't, but--

It was welcome. It was more welcome than they expected. They lifted their cup in turn.

"To friendship and freedom in the Neath."

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In a quiet tea shop...

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.

Re: ... an invited guest arrives.