Wightbeard toddled along behind, and as they entered into the library, he stopped dead and stared about at this new world. Books upon books; shelf after shelf, and the fireplace at the center of it all-! It wasn't his sort of place. It wasn't home, like the roiling waters of Fornax. But it was lovely nonetheless, and--oh, Bentley was talking?

He squinted. "Ships?" he suggested--another word hardcoded into his mind and his deepest desires. "Might be rose ships!" This made perfect sense to him. "I'd like to learn about ships! And water! The sea! Sea monsters! -Are there monsters in the ocean?" It was another idea that had just occurred to him.

He didn't quite know what it meant, but it was there, in his imagination. Maybe it was real. ...Maybe it wasn't?

Hopefully, this friendly hound would know.

"Ships? Oh! Maybe!" He paused, stared at the title for a moment, and then realized that--no, 'rose ships' didn't make any more sense than 'rose hips' did. And the title of the book very clearly said 'hips.'

He shrugged it off, and turned to gaze attentively at his guest. "Ocean? Ships? I can find some! Find a comfortable seat," he suggested. "It will take me a few minutes!"

There was a lot of cross-referencing he'd have to do. This time, when Bentley tugged at his magic, it responded: a light source flared into being, bobbing along with him to better shine upon the words he needed to read. He went about sniffing among the books, checking a list by the front, and gently drawing out spine after spine with his teeth. Each was piled carefully by Wightbeard, though he moved too quickly and too busily to stop yet and explain what each was.

Only when he had a sizeable pile--of all different colors, sizes, ages and even cover materials--did he plop down with wagging tail and lolling tongue, and explain.

"Okay! There's books here that are fiction! That means they are made-up stories. There's one about pirates. Two about sea monsters. There is one about a nav-al battle." (This word was new to him; he had to sound it out.) "There are books that are non-fiction, too. That means they are information, and not made-up stories! This one is about the tides and 'moons.' This one is about nav-uh-gat-tion. And, uh. This one is about ships! All sorts of ships. This one is about how to build a boat..."

He went on, listing a number of other nautical books he'd managed to gather together: quite an eclectic group, all in all. When he'd finished, he paused, smiling happily at Wightbeard. "I can read you some! Or teach you how to read!" he said.

His eyes, already wide, grew wider and wider with every word.

Pirates? Sea battles? Sea monsters? Ship-building, and even tides-?! Wightbeard clapped his hands together excitedly, bouncing up and down on the pillow upon which he'd chosen to sit. "Yes! -All of those! ...Please!" he exclaimed.

Oh-... maybe I should pick one to be first? He leaned down, and rather than choose by subject, found his ooze-fingers wandering the books themselves. He could smell their musty pages, even through his fingers, given his strange biology; as it was, they were all rather appealing but one of them, in tattered black canvas wrought with silver words, drew his eye most of all. "Start with... this one?" he suggested, pushing the book for Bentley.

Then he settled in to wait. The dry heat of the fire was already draining him; he made sure to use his magic to gather the water deeper in his form, the better to stay hydrated with, while he waited for storytime (or education) to begin.

"Okay! That one! 'Ships And Their Designs!'" ...And Bentley settled in.

One paw opened the cover of the book, clumsily. And his nose--pressed first to the pillow each time so he didn't too badly damp the paper--turned the pages.

This was not, he quickly found, a story. Well--both of them found this out, one might say 'the hard way;' it was a long slog through sloop and galleon, battleship and caravel: a text explaining all the varieties and shape of ships. There were diagrams of length and width, floor plans and diagrams of sails, words like "berth" and "galley" and "forecastle" (which Bentley hopelessly mispronounced the first six times, before stumbling upon an explanation).

It was... slow. It wasn't that it was even boring, per se. And Wightbeard seemed to love it, hanging on every word. It was just a lot of words to chew through: new ones to sound out, phrases Bentley had never seen, and a lot of technicalities that tended to lose one's interest. Well--his, anyway.

He pushed on, regardless, pausing now and then to offer some actual reading-and-writing lessons where it was appropriate, or turning the book so Wightbeard could see the pictures.

All the while, Wightbeard peppered his new teacher with questions. He asked about the rigging; asked about the axe that the book claimed sailors carried to cut the lines on certain ships in emergencies. He asked about where these ships might sail, and who had made them--questions to which Bentley could find no immediate answers--and what they were made out of.

The patient dog pushed forward the shipbuilding book in answer, a suggestion that they try this next, and Wightbeard wholeheartedly agreed. But in the meantime: he wanted to know why some ships were bigger. If some were intended for different kinds of water. If the 'tides' thing the other book spoke of, or sea monsters or pirates or naval battles, made a difference in the sort of ship one sailed. He wanted to know how those sails worked, and how big a crew had to be, and why a crow's nest was called that at all.

Bentley had some answers, and the rest stuck with the ooze-child, leaving him with fascinated curiosity.

The few reading-and-writing lessons were... harder, though. While he absorbed the ship-knowledge like a sponge, enthusiasm his guide, the writing was more of a chore. He tried his best--he really did--to memorize what he could, but what he wound up with was mostly a scattered understanding of the alphabet and the sounds a few specific letters made. It was a start, at least.

Now and then he tightened his magic, keeping his ooze-self hydrated as best he could. So far, so good; he was ready for more.

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He was, of course, happy to help!

When Wightbeard left that evening, he even prepared more learning material in full expectation of the slime-sailor's return. Books on sea and ships were sought out, plucked from shelves and piled neatly in waiting.

And Wightbeard did come back. Bentley was patient, friendly, and happy to have company: over the next couple months he taught Wightbeard everything he could.

__________

Now, cycles later, he was happily sitting (with swishing tail) as the pirate sounded out his own letters. He'd learned, albeit somewhat slowly, and Bentley was proud of how far he'd come. Proud, too, of having helped! And happy, of course, that his friend was learning so well.

He'd learned, himself, quite a lot about nautical topics--things about sails and the types of hulls on ships and all of that, things he'd never expected to know. It made him a little sad that he'd never be able to sail a ship. Jaws just didn't have the maneuverability of hands when it came to ropes and knots! But Wightbeard was diligent, and seemed to have big plans--so Ben was still happy to help.

Rigging. Sails. Hulls. Sailors. Axes. A galley, a forecastle, fore and aft, bow and stern, port and starboard, midship and crow's nest and mast--all terms he'd been learning over the last months.

Not only that, but the words and letters themselves--he was learning those, too. It was still hard. It still took study and practice, and when he wasn't in the library he was submerged in the rivers of Cepheus, sitting beneath the floating Hellswans and quietly bubbling as he absorbed floating algae and bacteria. (He'd been warned not to mess with the birds. He'd seen one yawn--seen its rows of teeth. He would indeed not mess with the birds.) Still, he yearned to return to Fornax. He had no ship, admittedly, but given all he was learning he was starting to wonder if he could build one. Or, perhaps, the Collector--a name he'd heard in passing--could help him to acquire one.

It was a difficult concept, but he was pretty sure he could make it work.

For now... he had a lesson to see to. He often thanked Bentley any way he could, with little baubles he'd found or made-up stories of his own, or food brought from the kitchens, but he felt like he'd learned (most of) what he needed. He wouldn't need to trouble the palace and its libraries much longer--which was good, because in some way, Wightbeard felt wildly out of place, here.

It was too... clean. Too spacious and too dry. It was a place for tall and elegant monsters, not oozes stumbling around asking Nedies for "more grog, please!"

Bubbles plumed from his mouth, then, as he considered--then said his goodbyes. "Not that I don't appreciate all ye've done for me," he explained, apologetically. "And I hope I'll come back! But I gotta find this Collector fella. ...Or a whole lot of wood," he mused.

And that--lesson-wise--was that.

exit both