Bastille had always carried a fascination for reading, no doubt some sort of cross over from Grimmkit's influence; after all, reading stories was just another form of absorbing them, if a slightly different fashion than Grimm's usual methods. There was something about his fondness for books that was unique to him, however -- none of his souls had cared for books, and Grimmkit himself hadn't cared for them during his brief lifetime as a host, either. So, it may be vaguely related to his role as Wilhelm Grimm's host, but it was still his thing. There were no bad memories attached to reading, no flashbacks rising up when he picked up a good book.

Classics in particular had always been on interest to him, as well as fairytales and histories; he figured that it was because of the classics, though, that he'd realized he wanted to really read them. He wanted the originals, the Latin -- and he knew that Grimm could speak it. Knew that some host, in some time period, had the fluency he wanted, just out of his reach. He just had to dig up the memories and brush up on his pronunciation. He still remembered that time he had gotten lost, 4 months old and too careless to worry about the potential of losing himself in the centuries of memories; he'd been in a coma for three days, trying to find his way back, and in the end he'd emerged triumphant but properly humbled. He had yet to go questing for another language in similar fashion, but Latin was the one he'd truly cared about, anyway. It was the one he'd suffered to get.

Now, Latin had a more nuanced meaning to him. For one thing, it one of his few connections to Hazel. He was convinced that if not for his willingness to teach her to read or to exchange brief conversations in Latin, she would not be nearly as willing to tolerate his presence. Hell, why would she? It wasn't like Bastille was exactly the best of people, let alone the type of person she would ever befriend normally, and her aura outshone him so thoroughly that he didn't even question that fact. Sure, she liked Octavia, but at this point he was convinced she liked the filly more than him. Still, though, he'd take it. He actually liked the quiet hours spent reading old Classics or myths to Hazel, the warmth of her skin radiating off of her and sinking into his bones.

He heard the familiar lit of her speaking Latin, and resisted the urge to retreat back into his room, to avoid her. Because he had been avoiding her, since Starry's death. He knew that he was a fucking trainwreck, and he couldn't stand Hazel's judgment, didn't want her to look at him and realize that he was so far out of control that he was too chaotic to come close. For whatever reason, he didn't want to push her away -- and the only way he could seem to do that just then was to avoid her like the plague. Still, however, he felt a burning need to know why she was speaking Latin to anyone else.

He would have just gone back to his damn room if he had anticipated what was going to happen, honestly.

Instead, he followed her voice, trying to push down the turbulent emotions raging in him, to ignore the weight of Starry's pendant clinking against his French coin with every step. He tried to look less listless and moody, but when he saw that it was Margy and stopped short a few paces away from them, he forgot that he was trying not to act like an asshole. No, he was too busy staring at the two of them, processing the fact that Margy knew how to speak Latin, too. Margy, whom Hazel actually adored and was growing increasingly close to; Margy, whom Hazel was looking at with such hope and excitement, her aura nearly blinding with the happiness that flared out in response to more lilting Latin from the Observer; Margy, whom Hazel would probably rather speak Latin with and learn to read from.

As his stare flickered between them, Bastille felt something dark and nasty surge through him. It was not something he could place, and it took him by surprise, but it was twisting and bitter and he realized, abruptly, that he could feel this more strongly than he'd felt anything in the days following Starry's death. It was soul-consuming and horrible, and he had the sudden, brief urge to rip Margy's throat out -- an impulse that felt so natural and right that it took him a second to realize what had just crossed through his thoughts. And by the time he took notice, the flickering memories were sinking in -- this vicious, angry jealousy that Pollutedsoul felt, the deranged edge that had overtaken his soul, the sticky warmth of blood on his paws.

Bastille realized, with crisp clarity, that he was being irrational. He knew that Starry's death had him in a shitty fucking state, but in that moment, he was fighting a losing battle against the surges of Pollie's soul, the flickering impressions of his thoughts and memories as he felt that nasty jealousy erupt in his chest. The ground shuddered briefly, a minor earthquake reacting to his instability, and he found himself speaking before the words even registered in his thoughts, "Well, I guess Margy will make a much better teacher than me, anyway."

He scowled once he realized the words were out there, but he didn't even care at this point -- his skin felt warm and tight, and for a moment, his irises flashed -- ice blue flickering an odd, mismatched tropical blue and green before they melted back into that cold blue. He could feel Pollutedsoul simmering on the surface, that vicious anger clawing at his thoughts, and he struggled to force it down as he took a step back. He could feel his control slipping even more, the raging heat in his gut more than just low-thrumming violence; his paws were heating up, little flames sparking across the ground in front of him as his dark stare avoided Hazel and found Margy instead. He felt that snap of animosity, the irrational urge to lunge for her, and he turned away instead. The boy was gone within moments, evidently deciding that he was less dangerous far, far away from them.

Besides -- he didn't want to sit around and watch Hazel light up in excitement over Margy's Latin any more than he wanted to stab a fork in his eye.

Hazel's eyes were wide with wonder and hope - twin pools of molten gold glowing ever so faintly in her excitement, the same reaction she had when she realized Bastille could speak it, too. She watched Margy intently, practically hanging on the next words that fell from her lips. Margy had been speaking quietly, and it was possible that Hazel had misunderstood; after all, there were similarities to English in the language.

Not to mention that Margy looked a little dazed, which was...a little concerning, actually. "Margy, are you okay?" Hazel asked, brows pinching. Margaery had a similar look to the way Hazel's head felt the night of her flashback, and that was just not okay. She didn't want to shake her out of anything, though. Something told her that wasn't going to end well. So the girl waited, only a bit impatient, dragging her teeth anxiously over her bottom lip. Latin was such an important thing to her - if Margaery could really speak it, then...that made three of them! Deus, the number of things to do with it would be limitless, and Hazel was excited, so excited -

And then Margy was speaking, the foreign language rolling off her tongue like it had been there the entire time. Hazel smiled so wide her eyes crinkled and her face hurt, because wow, wow, there were officially two people in the Ascendants that could speak Latin!

"Illud est mirabile, Margy." The girl breathed, elated and practically glowing. "Latine loqui non posset de cognatione mea." She added a bit wistfully. Actually, if her Mother had been able to speak it, that would have been the worst sort of nightmare imaginable. Hazel was glad that she couldn't. "Sis felix nimis." She tacked on. Her past was still a secret of sorts, and any sort of clue was not to be risked. Though...every day Hazel felt the guilt grow inside her, because these people were quickly becoming very dear to her, and she was keeping a massive secret from them. And Margaery's question didn't help - Hazel could feel the information bubbling at the base of her brain, but she held it back.

Her gaze became a little more guarded as she shook her head. "Et nota quod in tota vita mea. Nullus docuit me." She shrugged, wanting to divert the topic as quickly as possible. The origin of her ability was something she'd rather not discuss, partly because it segued into other, darker parts of her history and partly because it stirred something deep in her soul that she didn't care to explore at that point.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Hazel regarded Margy with a thoughtful expression. "If you were taught by - " Suddenly she paused, voice trailing off as the familiar sound of metal-against-pendant entered her ears. She turned, and found Bastille standing a few feet away. Immediately, Hazel's expression lit up again and her tail lifted, because: "Bast! Did you know that Margy speaks Latin, too? That makes three of us!"

The girl waited, hoping for a positive reaction from him, because this was good news, but found nothing in his expression. In fact, the harder she looked, the more she saw just the opposite of what she was wishing for. There was a twisted irritation there, and briefly, Hazel flashed to their most recent time together. It had been a little later at night than usual, and she was already tired from the day, but Bastille still sat and read to her. She could tell he was trying to be patient, despite her slow pace. He was so different during that time - so much softer around the edges. Eventually, Hazel had fallen asleep there on his floor, listening to him read. It felt safe there; safe and protected.

They hadn't done that for a few nights, now. Hazel missed it. A lot. She couldn't understand why he looked so jealous, his face pinched and tight, and - Hazel blinked, watching in utter confusion as his eyes warmed to tropical blue and green for a fraction of a second and the earth splintered beneath him. Hazel stared, completely at a loss, because she had no idea what was going on, and he seemed upset. The only time his powers slipped was when his emotions did, too.

"Well, I guess Margy will make a much better teacher than me, anyway."

Hazel eyes went wide again. "Guess Margy'll make a better..." She trailed off, mouth parted on the words. She shook her head ever so slightly, brain struggling to wrap around the words and what they meant. She glanced at Margaery, grasping at straws and trying to piece it together. The Latin, him teaching her to read, Margy, him getting upset...what was this all -

Oh.

She started forward, an apology on her lips: "Bastille, wait a second, that's not what - " She flinched back at the sparks flying from his paws, even though he had made no move towards them. Hazel looked again towards Margaery, just a bit desperate and helpless in the situation. Crap, when had this gone so badly? He sounded jealous, and rejected, and Hazel literally wanted anything but to end those sessions with him. But then he was gone, and Hazel was staring at open air and a splinter in the ground.

"I think I messed up, Margy." The girl whispered.

("illud est mirabile, Margy." - That is amazing, Margy.
"Latine loqui non posset de cognatione mea." - None of my family could speak Latin.
"Sis felix nimis." - You are very lucky.
"Et nota quod in tota vita mea. Nullus docuit me." - I have known it all my life. Nobody taught me.)

★ — hazel — "speech" — seven months — the ascendants — tags — ★