Disclaimer: They're not mine, I own nothing, and I make no money from this. I'm paid purely in reviews and comments. :)

Author's Note: I went down a rabbit hole on Wikipedia today, looking up other culture's tales of Romeo and Juliet-like doomed lovers, and found the legend of Layla and Majnun. The similarities were just too perfect not to use in this story.

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Chapter 4

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Liz lay in bed, curled on her side in the dark. She felt the bed shift as Reddington joined her, carefully staying on his half of the bed. The harsh light from the lantern tossed sharp shadows, alive with motion on the walls of the room, and gave the rustic wood of the boards nailed over the window a sinister feel. Liz didn't move, and didn't speak. Reddington turned out the light, and Liz closed her eyes, silently begging for sleep to come quickly.

It did, but it brought nightmares. Blood, and running, running until she had to walk, her feet dragging, leaden and clumsy, and the streets tilted upwards into the sky in front of her. She climbed them on her hands and knees until they became so steep that she fell back off of them, out into space, landing hard on the deck of a boat. Like a turtle on its back, Liz was unable to sit up or flip over, and she stared upwards, a man's face hovering over hers. She knew him, but couldn't tell who he was. His face kept shifting, confessions falling from his mouth like injuries—

Liz woke with a jolt, her legs tensing and her hands balling into fists around handfuls of the bed linens. She didn't sit up, and she made no noise, save for an audible, shaky inhale and forceful exhale.

"Lizzie." Red's voice was deep, but soft. She didn't turn toward him, and the bed didn't move—he didn't shift or reach for her, either. "Are you okay?"

Liz swallowed thickly, her mouth dry. "Yeah. I dreamt… I felt like I'd stepped off a curb," she lied. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

"No."

Liz's eyes had adjusted to the darkness since he'd turned the light out, and the small amount of moonlight that drizzled through the boarded up window in the room had dust particles that danced in it, weightless. "You haven't fallen asleep yet?" she asked hesitantly.

There was a pause before he repeated his answer. "No."

Liz finally shifted slightly, pushing a section of hair back off of her cheek. Most of her hair was still damp, as was the fabric of her pillow case. She must not have been asleep for more than an hour. "You normally have trouble sleeping, don't you." It wasn't a question.

The darkness behind her didn't respond.

"And tonight's situation doesn't make it any easier."

Still no response.

Liz watched the fingers of moonlight scratch the edge of the bed for another minute before she twisted, trying not to tug the blankets as she spun to face Reddington. He had his back to her, laying on his side in the mirror image of her previous position.

"I'm worried that if—" Liz broke off, wondering whether she wanted to admit to yet another weakness. She saw the shadow of Reddington's head turn, just barely, as he listened, waiting for her to go on. She licked her lips. "I'm worried that if I go back to sleep I'm going to pick up right where my last dream left off."

"I had no idea you were so frightened of curbs, Lizzie."

"Will you talk to me?" she asked, ignoring his statement.

"About what?"

"Anything. Just… talk. Pick a topic. Lecture me about proper handgun maintenance, or tell me about the first car you ever owned, or explain the process of making traditional salt water taffy…"

That last suggestion earned Liz a quarter turn of Reddington's head, so his face gazed up at the ceiling as he answered her. "You think I know how to make salt water taffy?"

"I think you know a little bit about absolutely everything, and I think you're a good enough story teller that—given a prompt, any prompt—you can talk for the next ten minutes while I fall back asleep. Would you do that for me?" Liz studied the curve of his forehead and the line of his nose, a murky profile in the darkness. After a moment, Reddington turned his face away from her again.

"One of the most beautiful places I've ever been is India," he began, his voice a low rumble. "I've been there several times, but I was fortunate enough to stumble on the festival of lights one year." Liz rearranged her pillow and the bed creaked with the movement. Reddington remained completely still. "Most people are more familiar with the springtime festival," he continued. "It's more colorful, and somewhat more playful. But I fell in love with the lights.

"It was late October… maybe early November, actually, I can't quite remember. I was traveling with a older woman who worked for… certain important people… and had contacts in India, Syria, and Pakistan. Beautiful woman, spoke a dozen languages fluently, and a goddess in the kitchen…"

Liz closed her eyes, listening to the story. She wished he would turn around to face her, but he'd been so adamantly motionless since he'd gotten into bed that she could tell he was purposefully maintaining his position. She could think of several reasons for this, and each one caused an ache in her chest.

She settled for advancing her hand along the mattress, stopping just shy of touching his back. Her fingertips could feel the warmth coming from his body, and it wasn't likely she'd managed to move her arm that much without him being aware of it, but she didn't care. His steady, deep voice didn't falter.

"…followed her through the streets, and the lights… They decorated the rooftops, and the windows… front stoops… in rings around buildings and all the way up the steps of the temples. The fireworks were… stunning. The spiritual significance differs depending on the region and religion, but what stuck with me was the idea of right versus wrong, transient wealth versus true wealth, ignorance versus knowledge, and the eventual victory of light over darkness."

"Light and dark is a big thing with you, isn't it?" Liz murmured softly.

Reddington was quiet for a long moment. "You're supposed to be asleep by now."

"Keep talking," Liz requested. "This woman… I bet she told you some wonderful stories."

"She did," Reddington agreed, his intonation indicating he was waiting for Liz to continue, anticipating a question.

"Anything that would make a good bedtime story? A fable, or a… fairytale."

"A fairytale?"

"No, I'm not… I'm not asking for a childhood story about princesses… That's not what I…" Liz sighed, her exhausted mind unable to express itself adequately.

After a brief silence, Reddington asked, "Do you know the story of Layla and Majnun?"

"No," Liz said.

Reddington seemed to shift uncomfortably, and Liz moved her hand quickly, in case he rolled toward her and found her hand on his back. He settled back to his previous stillness quickly.

"The story originated in ancient Arabia. It was a poem first, but it's been written and rewritten, and changed, and translated over the years..." He trailed off, and was silent for so long this time that Liz thought he'd decided against recounting the tale for her. She knew he hadn't fallen asleep, because his breathing hadn't slowed, or deepened. His shoulders still seemed tense.

"Red—"

"There was a beautiful young girl, Layla," Reddington began, stopping Liz. "A boy, Qays, fell desperately in love with her, and she with him. When they were old enough, Qays asked to marry her, but her father refused. Denied the woman he loved, Qays wrote poem after poem about her; for her. He never tried to hide his adoration, he never tempered his devotion. People noticed.

"Layla's father continued to bar Qays from seeing her, and the longer they were kept apart… the deeper Qays' obsession became. Layla was miserable, and she could see what their separation was doing to Qays. She begged her father to let them be together, but her family felt that Qays was dangerous, and thought that the intensity of his love was more of a descent into madness. Layla's father promised her to another man… a more suitable match for her. A wealthy noble merchant.

"When Qays heard of the marriage, he fled into the desert, wandering for days to distract himself from the fact that the woman he…" Liz felt the bed shift slightly. "He couldn't bear the idea of Layla in the arms of another man, a man who had been arranged for her… Someone who most likely just thought of her as a business commodity."

Reddington's voice trailed off, and Liz frowned. "You said the story was about Layla and Majnun. Is Majnun the other man she married?"

"'Majnun' means 'madman'…" Reddington replied, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. "The nickname given to Qays as he wandered in the wilderness, pining for Layla."

"Madman?" Liz repeated.

"He roamed the desert, talking to himself, reciting poems of Layla's beauty and his love for her. He poured his longing and despair into his verse. When he strayed too close to the villages, people would write down the poems he spoke aloud, and his words traveled… His poetry was made into song, and passed on scraps of paper. No matter where Layla's husband placed her, no matter how far away they traveled, Majnun's words of devotion and love always found her. Afraid of her husband, Layla kept quiet, her love silent, and secret. She knew Qays still loved her, despite her marriage to another man.

"After years apart, Layla's husband died. Finally able to openly mourn her love for Qays, she slipped into a deep despair and, feeling the full weight of her broken heart, she too died. She was buried in the wilderness, and Qays was later found dead on her grave, his final three verses of poetry, dedicated to her, carved into a nearby rock."

Liz let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "That's not a very happy ending."

"You didn't ask for a happy ending."

"No… I didn't." Liz paused, remembering another story. "Red… do you remember investigating the Cyprus Adoption Agency? Last year?" Reddington said nothing, and Liz continued, knowing that his memory was damn near perfect, and of course he remembered it. "We were tracking down a drug lead, and you took me to a house… you told a story… about a hallucinogenic drug-induced trek through the desert in Arizona." Liz wished he would turn around to face her. "When was that, Red? When did you go on that trip? At the time, you said 'two years ago'. That would put it around the same time as my wedding."

"Wasn't my story supposed to put you to sleep?" Reddington asked her pointedly, obviously trying to halt the conversation.

"It's a pretty safe bet that neither one of us is going to sleep any time soon," Liz said with conviction. "So I'm going to need you to turn around and talk to me."

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TBC.