#i SWEAR not every fandom conlang i've made is just recycled greek phonemes

[dreamcrow]

Hey! Happy Holidays! If you're still taking promptals, consider: stricklake snuggles, for any verse that goes with that XD if I'm too late, then I'll just take that opportunity to thank you for the all the great fic you posted this year! *throws confetti*

thank YOU for reading!! and for such a welcome, relaxing prompt :v

this is set in the vague, near-ish future of in my sleep i dreamed of waking, after the second sequel i’ve currently got planned. no major spoilers, at least that i know of, though i…definitely let the word count get away from me. OTL

829 (!) words | it’s mf'in cozy time, lads (now ft. dumb romo conlang fluff)

It’s not that he's—ectothermic, now. Not strictly speaking.

“What you’re saying is ‘irregular endings,’ and ‘unique linguistic heritage.’ And I get that, I do.” Barbara’s voice, pitched almost convincingly to something bright and awake, is half-muffled from the voluminous cloud of their comforter. She’d hesitated a little, at first; but when she’d finally come around to the eiderdown, he’d been insufferable. “But what I’m hearing is: the fifth declension is garbage.”

“You’re just not used to such heavy inflection,” he protests. But he’s grinning, as he says it, and she’s laughing, and half-sleepy, and warm, and never, never did he ever dare to dream his life would be like this. “Six cases is hardly anything. That’s the same amount as Latin—”

“We’ve already established I only know bad doctor Latin.”

“Better than nothing.” He’d been a physician once, only briefly—back when it was still called leechdom, and featured actual leeches—but as he reaches up to take hold of her hand, he wonders how many bones he can still name. If they have names in the language he’s teaching her. “If you think this is bad, wait ‘til you hear standard Trollish.”

A flicker of something crosses her eyes, and then—because of course—she looks a little more awake. 

“I’ve never heard standard Trollish,” she says, in that slow, deliberate way. The way that means I’m asking indirectly on purpose, because for some reason, I’m interested, and invested in being gentle, even to a worn out treacherous two-timing old thing like you—

Maybe not…exactly in those words. But he hears it like that, anyway, at least until she’s pulling herself a little closer to him, and that train of thought abruptly derails. 

He rallies, just in time, and attempts a recovery. “As I told you, my dear. I’ve got an accent.”

“You’ve got an accent in English, too, you dork.”

“Regardless. You’ll pick it up. You’ll sound like a changeling, in front of all respectable troll society.”

“I am the Trollhunter’s mother,” she grumbles. Half tender, half fire, even from the comfort of bed, and oh, he is in love. “I’ll sound like whoever I damn well please.”

“Only if you master the fifth declension, áhttar.”

She groans, and kicks him tenderly in the shins, muttering something that sounds like I’ll show you declensions. He’s glad of the cover, honestly, to distract from the thought that someone—that she—would want to sound like him.

They stay like that a few more moments. He’s certainly not complaining. Then:

“Walt.”

He knows that tone of voice. But he can’t flinch, not now. “Barbara.”

“Were you aware. It’s almost nine.”

“It’s the weekend.”

“There’s no food here.”

He hums. “But we’re so comfortable.”

She gives a soft sigh. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”

“Oh?" 

She rolls onto her side, so she’s facing him directly. 

”En ánats,“ she says, slowly and carefully. ”En—eit araanai. Esti an…kahve-ci?“

I’m hungry. I'm—it’s breakfast. Do you want some coffee.

His eyes go wide. He can’t stop the smile coming back over his face.

”Ask me again, my darling.“

"Oh, come on—” She gives him a look, though it’s not quite enough to conceal the fondness in her voice. “I know you heard me.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he says, grinning like a fool. “There’s never been a human who spoke our language before—”

“En mathi.” I’m learning. “Even if I’ve got a horrible teacher. A handsome, horrible, no-good very bad teacher, who’s keeping me trapped in bed, on a Sunday, just so he can leech off my precious human warmth—”

“I’m not trapping you!”

“I’m going to starve, Walt. En ánats!” She gives him a pitiful face, even as he’s laughing into the pillow. “Come on, Walt. Oh, how d'you say it—viti?”

Please?

Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought to hear that word, in his language, coming from her.

But. Well. When asked with such tenderness, how can he refuse?

“Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll make you coffee. To show that I’m not just interested in your delightful endothermic qualities.”

“Tell me that’s you giving in.” She makes a wistful face. “I definitely heard kahve in there. And something about—humans?”

“Indeed. Clever darling heart.” He reaches out again, to take her hand. “But you’ll have to give me the instructions.”

“What.”

“The unused knife dulls quickest.”

“Oh, God. That was an idiom, wasn’t it.”

But she’s almost laughing, as she says it. And—well. Then, she’s slipping out of bed, and pulling his hand, and her touch is so gentle, so warm—

“At least let me have English 'til we get downstairs,” she’s saying. She could ask anything of him, he thinks, and it wouldn’t feel like any kind of concession, as long as she held his hand. “You still won’t teach me swearing, so I’ve gotta—surely I’ve earned some allowances, here.”

“Ah, my dear,” he says, as she pulls him out from under the covers. “I am nothing if not chivalrous.”