Even that wonderful! feels so familiar it's as though she's taken a big breath after having been holding it -- though there's nothing she can quite tie it to, no remembered sentence, just a sense of the way of his speaking being right.
A protest catches on Camilla's lips, and she pauses for a moment, rocking up on her toes in indecision. Her mind is rocked by instinct countered by memory, every bit of filed information her brain has retained in some fold somewhere flooding into her at once. She does, at times, follow his instruction, doesn't she? Stay her hand, hold back on her instinct. And he's coming from the opposite direction, too: maybe he knows something she doesn't about what's behind him.
When she sees him attempting a jog toward her, though, an ungraceful, lanky but earnest lope made all the sillier by sand and being uphill from her for the beginning, she can't just stand there and let him try to run to her. Tired as she is, she closes the last few feet to him.
She has a million things in her mind -- not the least of which is the horrible realization that she doesn't know his name, but she's too desperately grateful for the canteen he presses into her hands, nodding and tipping it back. The water isn't icy, but it's still cold to her, and she has a stern word with herself at the urge to just guzzle half his canteen; she takes a long swallow that still feels greedy and pulls back, relishing the cool of it.
Cam has a million questions just based on everything he's said, glancing up to meet his eyes. They almost shimmer in the sunlight, and she's held there, not struck by them -- though they're objectively lovely -- but by his face. In her mind's eye, she sees the architecture of a skull trace occipital ridge, the beginning of a cheekbone, the dip at the temple that -- thank god -- is right now covered by very alive hair and the beginning dew of sweat. He's rattled off a whole paragraph, and she has so much she doesn't know -- who are they? where are we? who is everyone? how did we get here? -- and so much she's angry she can't remember, but the worst part is that she doesn't even know if he's seeing what she's seeing.
Her head throbs. When she wipes the remaining water away from her lips, the back of her hand comes away with a streak of blood and she glances at it distractedly before pressing her lips together. "Warden," she says, because she may not know enough, but she knows that. And, she thinks, she has asked him to slow down with just a word before.
The world shifts around her and she can only see one way to still it.
"Do you know me?"
She wants to ask do you remember me but she can't ask that of him.
Re: 01.
A protest catches on Camilla's lips, and she pauses for a moment, rocking up on her toes in indecision. Her mind is rocked by instinct countered by memory, every bit of filed information her brain has retained in some fold somewhere flooding into her at once. She does, at times, follow his instruction, doesn't she? Stay her hand, hold back on her instinct. And he's coming from the opposite direction, too: maybe he knows something she doesn't about what's behind him.
When she sees him attempting a jog toward her, though, an ungraceful, lanky but earnest lope made all the sillier by sand and being uphill from her for the beginning, she can't just stand there and let him try to run to her. Tired as she is, she closes the last few feet to him.
She has a million things in her mind -- not the least of which is the horrible realization that she doesn't know his name, but she's too desperately grateful for the canteen he presses into her hands, nodding and tipping it back. The water isn't icy, but it's still cold to her, and she has a stern word with herself at the urge to just guzzle half his canteen; she takes a long swallow that still feels greedy and pulls back, relishing the cool of it.
Cam has a million questions just based on everything he's said, glancing up to meet his eyes. They almost shimmer in the sunlight, and she's held there, not struck by them -- though they're objectively lovely -- but by his face. In her mind's eye, she sees the architecture of a skull trace occipital ridge, the beginning of a cheekbone, the dip at the temple that -- thank god -- is right now covered by very alive hair and the beginning dew of sweat. He's rattled off a whole paragraph, and she has so much she doesn't know -- who are they? where are we? who is everyone? how did we get here? -- and so much she's angry she can't remember, but the worst part is that she doesn't even know if he's seeing what she's seeing.
Her head throbs. When she wipes the remaining water away from her lips, the back of her hand comes away with a streak of blood and she glances at it distractedly before pressing her lips together. "Warden," she says, because she may not know enough, but she knows that.
And, she thinks, she has asked him to slow down with just a word before.
The world shifts around her and she can only see one way to still it.
"Do you know me?"
She wants to ask do you remember me but she can't ask that of him.