It was a surprising day indeed when he heard someone other than Hazel — Margy's absence was a struck nerve, the burning reminder that it could not be her speaking it — speaking Latin in the Observatory. The voice was vaguely unfamiliar, something he could place as a newcomers but not identify outright, particularly not in the foreign (though well known to Bastille) tongue. The language was a dear one, not only for the manner in which he was able to connect with Hazel on it, but because he had worked for it. Not in the usual manner that one acquired a language, no: he had suffered for it in his own way, searching through the vast pools of memories that Wilhelm Grimm stored from his hosts and losing himself in the fray of it all, dragging up the language with greedy paws and the fierce eagerness of youth. He'd been in a coma for three days for his hubris, but Bast would have given up even longer to come out of it successful, Latin in his teeth.

More surprising, perhaps, was familiar Latin. At this point it seemed to be fairly common knowledge that his "secret" library was in reality just the books crammed into every free space in his room, and even more common knowledge that he took a particular interest in the classics. The answering words lingered on the tip of his tongue as he approached them lazily, pale blue stare fixing on Winterwolf in interest as he heard them spoken even before they left him — it took him a moment, then, to make sure that he had not spoken after all, for the near simultaneity of his thoughts and this guy's speech.

[b]"Aeneas miratus enim motusque tumultu: Dic, ait, o virgo, quid vult concursus ad amnem? Quidve petunt animae? Vel quo discrimine ripas, hae linquunt, illae remis vada livida verrunt?" The words fell with smooth grace as he stopped beside Fey, finding himself inclined towards the original Latin. He studied these two idly, and then added, "It would be a crime not to know Vergil, in my opinion, but I do admit I'm more favorable to Ovid." Bast glanced down to Fey, and studied her for a moment; it was no surprise that she could understand the Latin — Margy's abilities in her, innately — but he waited to see how she justified it.

[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST

Hazel knew the shallow ends of slavery - that was, the punishment that made it so. When a chore was not completed, her food was taken for the week; when something broke, she was the one to fall on its glass and mop away the spots of blood; and when there was nothing, Hazel was the one to suffocate in the closet full of chemicals. Now, she bore the storms of her childhood on her body: thin lines of memories, permanently stained against her skin.

Today, she had managed to make it farther than the observatory doors, for which she should be proud. Unfortunately, her mind was blankly occupied with grief most days, unwilling to bend to external events. That was, until the lilt of Latin brushed against her ear. Most was recognizable: Ovid, something Hazel knew well. She recalled Bastille reading much of it to her, switching between Latin and English for the sake of teaching her the latter language. It felt like water against a burn, soothing and soft - and cold. Cold for the memory of Margaery's lips forming similar words, speaking to Hazel or someone else.

"Quo dum Proserpine luco, ludit et aut violas aut candida lilia carpit, dumque puellari studio calathosque sinumque, inplet et aequales certat superare legendo, paene simul visa est dilectaque raptaque Diti: usque adeo est properatus amor." Hazel murmured, nearly to herself. It was almost a mantra; almost an attempt to ground herself, but it did little to push away the memories of Margy.

About to lose herself to memory, Hazel was suddenly snapped out of her trance by Feyre's ridiculous sentence. The cocoa feline stopped short, just next to Bast, staring at Fey with a feverish sort of amusement. A grin cracked her lips as iron pyrite cracked the earth, a delirious giggle falling from her tongue at the young girl's attempt. It was the first time she'd laughed in days - and her features already felt sore. Explaining it would have been hard, and Hazel couldn't have deemed it real laughter, but she felt lighter...she felt a need to thank Feyre.

"We'll have to start you on lessons," Hazel suggested, soft with fondness. Temporarily clinging to the feeling of sun, Hazel turned her attention to the direwolf rinsing himself of gold. Her eyes, brighter than before, watched with a heavy curiosity, saucer wide at his size and manner. "Hello," She greeted, not acknowledging the crack of her uneven voice. "Are you looking for a place to stay?"