Camilla's eyes catch on the shape breaking the monotonous dun of the rise, a shadow and then a figure drawing closer. She freezes for a moment, heart hammering in her chest, letting her hat fall back from her face and catch like some sort of huge backward pendant as she rises slowly to watch it. Him. Part of her is suspecting, uneasy in this strange place where the sun doesn't move and where there is so much nothing and practical enough to think that if she can't even remember -- most things, not for lack of trying and a pounding headache to match -- she's not past hallucination.
Part of her is desperate for any other sign of life.
He tips something to his mouth, tips his head back to drink and for a moment she's only and simply terribly jealous, struck by how thirsty she can't even remember being. (...Naturally.)
Then her mind takes in the sun's sketch of the man, the way light pools in recesses under cheekbones and throat and scales long limbs, the fingers of one hand clutching some sort of tablet or book, and her chest clenches around it. She's momentarily dizzied by familiarity, by the sudden respite granted to hours -- it feels like hours, anyway -- of not just confusion but isolation and the only memories she knows are true speaking of loss.
Then he shouts to her, waves his hands, and the voice is familiar too, though she's not sure if he does know her from what he says, or can see to know if he does.
It can't be real. It has to be a mirage, a trap; she can't trust anything here. Or he's real, and she's gone mad.
Who the fuck cares, right now?
"Yes," she says, and it's barely audible, half a whisper, half a choke against a parched throat. She resteels herself, raising a hand. "I see you," she calls, nodding, even as she starts moving, sand giving way under hasty feet, the world sliding backwards.
Re: 01.
Part of her is desperate for any other sign of life.
He tips something to his mouth, tips his head back to drink and for a moment she's only and simply terribly jealous, struck by how thirsty she can't even remember being. (...Naturally.)
Then her mind takes in the sun's sketch of the man, the way light pools in recesses under cheekbones and throat and scales long limbs, the fingers of one hand clutching some sort of tablet or book, and her chest clenches around it. She's momentarily dizzied by familiarity, by the sudden respite granted to hours -- it feels like hours, anyway -- of not just confusion but isolation and the only memories she knows are true speaking of loss.
Then he shouts to her, waves his hands, and the voice is familiar too, though she's not sure if he does know her from what he says, or can see to know if he does.
It can't be real. It has to be a mirage, a trap; she can't trust anything here. Or he's real, and she's gone mad.
Who the fuck cares, right now?
"Yes," she says, and it's barely audible, half a whisper, half a choke against a parched throat. She resteels herself, raising a hand. "I see you," she calls, nodding, even as she starts moving, sand giving way under hasty feet, the world sliding backwards.