Words

They'd finally made their way to Woman Wept. The sun shone down on waves that towered over their heads, shooting rays of icy light and diffracting rainbows from their surface. Jenny had spent twenty minutes in absolute wonder before she'd started conversing again. It was just too beautiful to talk while she was looking at this.

"Jenny?"

She turned away from the fish that swam beneath the ice in the wave towering above her, glancing at her father.

"Hunh?"

"Remember that talk we were having about interspatial and inter-Vortex physics?"

"Yep."

"You want to finish it?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yeah! But you said it was going to have to wait."

"Well we can't finish it this second." The Doctor said lightly. The cool wind brushed the dark thatch of his hair back from his face, and he drew a deep, clean breath.

"I was thinking about the lesson I ought to have given with you before I started on that. I went a bit in circles with you, and I need to go back to the basics. It shouldn't take us too long, though. Fancy a language lesson?"
Jenny cocked her head, her hair bleached almost silver by the cool light.

"Language lesson? But the TARDIS translates everything."

"Mm, not exactly. Some things just aren't going to come through the language circuits properly. Got too many nuances to translate into the Basic languages, or any of the Earth languages." His eyes roved nervously as he talked, hands buried in the pockets of his greatcoat. "Oh, I can get my point across for conversation most of the time. Even some basic science and mathematic models, those come across, essentially anyway. But if you go any deeper than that, get into any of the really interesting science or pretty much anything important in temporal work, or even higher chemistry if it comes to that, I can't simplify it enough, and without the proper precision and nuance of language available to me it'll be like teaching you to drive a car without using the words 'clutch,' 'brake' or 'wheel'. And that's not very workable. So, upshot of all that-" He drew a breath, bringing his eyes to hers with a tentative half-smile. "You want to learn Gallifreyan?"

She started with a pile of books.

"Now it's not going to be easy to learn." Her father had warned her, "Most Gallifeyan kids were three, sometimes four before we learned to speak it properly, and that's hearing it every day from the moment you're Loomed. It's very complex, extremely detailed and precise. And it's concept-based, not sound-based. And there's the four-dimensional grammar too. So, don't worry if it takes a bit to cotton on to, all right?" There was encouragement in his eyes. But Jenny could see nervousness there too.

Jenny started reading. She could read a lot faster than most, something about the way her eyes processed the information her father had said. And it was a good thing, because she had a lot of reading to do. She finished the books. Then she re-read them. She started to get an idea of why she needed to learn it; Gallifreyan was a language that allowed for every nuance of idea, thought, composition and emotion to be put into words. It was clear, precise, and mathematical in its structure, making speech sound a bit like music. And the verb-forms were going to make talking over temporal subjects a lot easier. There were specific verb structures for things that other languages didn't even begin to cover, special tenses for things that happened in relative past and personal future or vice versa, words that described mental or emotional states she'd never seen accurately expressed before. Jenny hunted up conversations to listen to on the data banks, and she read everything she could get her hands on. There was an awful lot to take in.

Two weeks later, she was sprawled in the library, headphones over her ears as she listened to a conversation. Her head came up when she caught her father's sense. She glanced behind her. He was standing behind her. She'd been concentrating so hard that she hadn't noticed him.

"How're you getting on?"

"Pretty well." She pushed herself to her feet. "You were right, it's involved. But I think I'm getting it."

He nodded, eyes studying. "Really?"

She nodded. "The basic structure anyway."

The Doctor smiled. "Well, that's a good start. A very very good start. And the more you use it the more you'll get to know it, y'know. Best way to learn a language, immersing yourself in it. So, how confident do you feel, really?"

Jenny considered. "About…seventy percent confident, I suppose. Sufficiently fluent to understand most of the conversation."

He nodded again. "Good! Really good. What do you say to some practical experience then? I'll turn off the lingual circuits for a bit, and we can see how we get on. Sound all right?"

Jenny's her face set. "Mm…Yes." Unconsciously, her body became taunt, readying itself for a fight. Her father fleetingly considered telling her to relax. But it wouldn't help much. So he only drew a breath and closed his eyes, making the necessary adjustments through the link to his ship. Then he spoke.

Jenny cocked her head, her smooth brow furrowing. She'd caught about half of that sentence. He was asking her if she remembered where all these books strewn across the floor had come from. She answered him carefully in the positive, and he smiled.

"Good. Then let's put the books back in the blank with the blank-blank." She didn't get his next sentence at all.

Okay, maybe not seventy percent. Maybe fifty.

After three hours, she thought maybe it was more like thirty percent. She was fighting to understand, fighting to keep up with him. He watched her, his eyes hopeful. But she felt like she was losing the fight.

"That's probably enough for now." He said after another two hours. Jenny nodded, mortified at the swell of relief that washed through her when she heard Artemesia Basic. She hoped she'd shielded that at least.

It was like that all week. And all the next week too. Every time they talked in Gallifreyan she fought to understand, fought to follow his conversation. He made it sound so easy, dropping into the language like a stone into water. His English accent fell away like it had never existed, and the words poured out. It didn't help that he talked about a mile a minute. It was his native language, she told herself that. But it still got to her. And she could see the worry in his eyes, almost feel the disappointment. She had to get better at this. She had to work harder, she must not be working hard enough. She had to try.

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She was trying. But she treated the whole thing less like a lesson and more like a battle. It was her greatest weakness as a student. The Doctor could feel her thinking about it all the time, feel her frustration every time she used the wrong word, every time she couldn't find a phrase. She was trying almost too hard, yelling at herself inside her head when she made an error. It was becoming a constant undercurrent in her mind. And it was going the same way for him. Thoughts chased themselves around in his head.

Maybe he had pushed it too hard. He had told it that it was essential to her studies and it was. But she was taking it so seriously. She'd been trying for two weeks. Then three. She was improving. But so slowly.

Was this normal? How could he know? Normal was an impossible definition with her. He felt so uncertain with her sometimes, never sure where he could start. He didn't know her limits or abilities, not really. Genetically she was predisposed to high intelligence and memory retention. But the Machine that made her had put things in her head. He was still fighting that soldier programming. What if it had done something to her speech or learning centers? What if she didn't have the mental ability to learn such a complex language?

But he had learned one thing about teaching his daughter. It took patience. He had to have a bit of patience. Just give it time, encourage her, keep practicing.

He found other things to show her. Anything else. New planets, new cultures, new technologies. He made light of the language practice.

And slowly, she improved. Her speech grew faster, more fluid. He left the lingual circuits off for incrementally longer periods. Another month passed. Now they were laughing and bantering in his own language. He taught her jokes that only made sense in Gallifeyan. He turned the lingual circuits off without telling her, and she barely noticed. In the mornings she'd sing sometimes, and the lilting words would roll down the corridors, high and light and lovely; Gallifreyan with a funny hint of English accent. Patience. It had been worth it.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Jenny was singing as she pulled a cup down from the cabinet. She lifted the kettle from the stove, poured it over the tea. Warmth rippled in the back of her head.

"Good morning, Father." She used a familiar version of the word, the one that implied they were friends as well as parent and child. She turned, smiling at him where he leaned against the door frame.

"Like a cup?'

"Yes, thanks. Love a bit of tea in the morning."

She turned, moving quickly from the refrigerator for the milk and back to the cabinet. The cup rattled ominously as she bumped it with her elbow, but she caught it before it splashed. She fell back into song as she worked, the quick bright words running over her tongue. She loved the song, a piece about birds that soared between silver-leaved trees. It was actually a duet, and she liked the other half of it too, but she stuck to the female part.

Hot water splashed into the cup. Jenny dropped into the chorus.

A bright tenor suddenly rose behind her, a little cracked, but carrying the male part in grand style. Tea slopped as she turned. Singing. Her father was singing.

Jenny took a breath and joined him at the right moment, matching tones and emotions. Their voices, neither perfect, somehow blended together in a lovely melody.

They finished the song together. Her father grinned, his eyes sparkling. In her head she described exactly the pride, joy, and excitement she could see on his face, what he was letting her feel, and the emotion it brought out in her. Because now she had the words to do it.