#i whispered (everyone in my house is asleep) ''fascinating'' when i finished it which sums it up

[micahdotgov]

can't sleep. scroll the west wing ao3 tag. read all the good ones. go to dr who kink meme. open the master section. second fic is the west wing crossover.

[ekaterinakostrova]

“She wanted to be able to talk to him in his own language, and that desire was a terrible pain”.

Her lips formed words, fingers touched old pages. So many unfamiliar words, but already familiar letters. It became a ritual for her. Sometimes she read historical chronicles about cruel and desperate generals, about the greatest warriors, conquerors of the wind; she read stories of formidable battles and vile creatures that fell by the swords of the brave rulers of mountains, read legends about star-crossed lovers... Among all of these books, she could find slim volumes of poetry. Words enchanted her, phrases intoxicated her.

And then she heard his speech. She had already heard the Illyrian language among native speakers, but when he spoke, something inside her began to tremble. It was like a bolt of lightning, a burning cold sliding over her spine. Such a melodic language and his soft tone, a deep and low voice. He spoke, and they listened to him, valued his every word. Words that sounded so naturally on his lips.

Emerie helped her find some books that she could read after mastering the alphabet, sometimes trying to explain the structure of sentences, but she still lacked written sources.

“No one on the continent studies Illyrian intentionally, so you won’t be able to find a single well-written textbook in a common language,” Emerie once said, cutting the dark fabric into pieces with a sharp pair of silver scissors.

“Why?” Nesta asked with interest, looking up at the girl.

Emery blew out a long sigh.

“Why would anyone mess with the most brutal warriors on the continent? Everyone is terrified of my people, and the elders are too stubborn to let strangers into our lands”.

Nesta frowned.

“Women of the clans sew real works of art. I am sure that many noble families among all Courts on the continent would like to buy clothes with Illyrian’s national embroidery. In some clans, large gems are mined. They could develop market, and so many people could finally find a job.

Emerie grinned bitterly.

“Tell the old man about it, and I'll see, what he will do with you after that.”

And Nesta wanted to. But more than that, she wanted to fill the oppressive silence in the house. Sometimes Cassian would come back in the middle of the night, when she was already in her room. She peered at the hazy shifty visage night after night. She knew that he had done it deliberately, so that he would not accidentally meet with her in the house. He was trying to avoid her. Their last fight was not just a simple quarrel, they both allowed themselves to hurt each other with words, deeply.

Sometimes she listened to the fierce melody of the wandering storm outside, waiting for the sound of heavy wings, the echoes from the creaking floorboards, and his tired sigh. Sometimes she fell asleep on the sofa by the fire, waiting for him to return. And while she was sleeping, she imagined him flying in the black sky, a cascade of snow coming down, hiding the horizon behind it.  

She rarely stayed in the living room, still feeling like an intruder in his house, but this night the storm was particularly strong, and there was nothing she could do about her restless heart. She listened to the menacing swirls of the strong wind beating against the glass.

She looked down at the books on the massive wooden table, peered at the fascinating patterns of letters, ran her fingers along the handwritten pages, as if she could feel the hands that had painted the once clean, light pages. The Illyrian language was surprisingly refined, like fine art. Nesta saw the notes that Cassian left on papers, and was amazed that his strong hands, which easily broke other people's bones, could write out neat curls of letters that formed words.

She looked down at her pages with writing and grimaced. Her letters were crooked, and the handwriting was sloppy, rushed and untidy.

She took a deep breath and started again. She wrote until her fingers ached and her palms were covered with dark streaks of ink. Then she tried to read the first few stanzas in the book, trying to remember how Emerie used to say the words of greeting that Illyrians exchange with each other.

“I salute you, may your path be easy and your heart be serene.”

She took a deep breath and tried again.

“Eine kaste corte, de la vonte lineus, sum meri altus”.

Nesta frowned, trying to remember the correct intonation with which Emerie had read the sentence.

“Eine kaste corte…de la vonte lineus…”.

And it sounded so wrong on her lips. But… she was patient.

Nesta was trying to finish the sentence, when suddenly she heard fluent Illyrian speech, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Eine vileus corte ir woste famus”.

She met deep, dark brown eyes that turned almost black in the shadows. Dark, curly locks of wet hair fell over his handsome face, and his piercing gaze met with her pale gray eyes. Her lips parted slightly. They lived under the same roof, but the feeling of tension did not subside after their last argument, and they both avoided each other.

Nesta blinked, breaking eye contact and looking down at her soiled hands.

“I don't know what your words mean,” she admitted, feeling a warm blush creep over her cheekbones.

“I welcome you to my home.” This is what they say when they invite guests to their home.

For a long moment, a deafening silence enveloped them. She wanted to be with him, she was happy that he came back. She wanted to breathe in his scent that she longed for, wanted to look at him and memorize his features until her eyes ached. But she stared at her hands, refusing to obey her instinct. The desire she wanted to get rid of.

“Never knew you were learning Illyrian. Why would you do that? A large number of Illyrians know the common language too.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Not all of them. People close to noble families can speak the common language, and many women and children do not understand me. If I'm going to live here, I need to know the language that people speak, don't I? Otherwise, I will remain a foreign witch.

She felt the air crackle with his anger; his eyes had gone molten with a suppressed rage that seems to suck all the air out of the atmosphere.

“What did they tell you?”

She looked up at him because she couldn't stop herself. And Nesta was surprised to see faint echoes of fear in the depths of the hazel eyes.

“Nothing,” she whispered faintly, hiding behind the pages of her books. No one would take her words seriously; no one of elders would give her the word to stand up for the rights of children and women.

But there was another reason, entirely selfish reason. She wanted to be able to talk to him in his own language, and that desire was a terrible pain.

She kept her gaze glued to the table because if she looked at him she might be lost.

“I'll make some tea,” Nesta said sharply, rising from the table, not daring to endure the oppressive silence of the room any longer.  She had to get away from him, from his soft voice.

She put the kettle on the stove, lighting the burner. So much time has passed, and many things have become familiar, almost native. She was used to the smell of black coffee and toast in the morning, used to the smell of Jasmine tea that Cassian brewed in the morning. She was used to seeing him at work, and it seemed that he could not afford a moment of peace to himself. Sometimes she saw him oiling and polishing heavy swords, but never in the house, as if the house he had built with his own hands was his fortress. His hiding place from the rest of the world.

This house felt different with him in it. She felt different. It was the way he looked at her, as if he could devour her any minute. 

When she returned to the living room with a wooden tray containing two mugs of hot tea, Cassian was sitting at the table, looking at her notes.

“Your handwriting is beautiful,” he said.

She made a face as she put the tray on the table.

“I'm telling the truth,” he said, grinning widely. “I also brought you something,” he said, nodding toward a stack of leather-bound volumes.

“What is it?” she asked, picking up one of the books and flipping through the pages, the handwriting was familiar.

“These are my notebooks when I was learning the common language. I thought you might need them. I started with the alphabet, too, and my notes weren't as neat and consistent as yours,” he said, keeping his gaze on her. He knew. He knew what he did to her when she looked into his eyes.

“When did you start learning a common language?” she asked, looking up at him.

“I think I was a little older than you”.

“Why?”

He chuckled.

“I wanted to get out of here. I wanted to see the world, wanted to become someone”.

She remembered the little boy who had snatched the bread from the counter at the market. She remembered how fiercely and hopelessly he had pressed his fingers into a loaf of bread.

Hunger.

Coldness.

She was familiar with these feelings. He was just a little child. The top of his head barely reaching her knees. In the reflection of his eyes, she saw a grown man who had known too much pain.

She shuddered, remembering that day.

She could not imagine what Cassian’s life was like in these mountains, among these cruel warriors.

“Who taught you?”

“Firstly, I learned it by myself. Books were a luxury. In my time, I could buy a warm jacket or boots, a hearty dinner and find a safe place for a night for one of such books”.

He picked up one of her notebooks, looking at her notes with interest.

“Later, Rhysand’s mother gave me lessons”.

Nesta fixed her gaze on the map he had drawn in his notebook, running her fingers over the letters, with the names of seas, oceans, and distant continents. Did he dream of traveling around the world as much as she did?

It was more than she could ask for.  

“Thank you”.

He grinned again, a slow, beautiful smile that sent her heart clenching hard.

“I could help you, if that's what you want.”

She clutched a leather-bound book.

“It would be my pleasure.”