She doesn't have enough context for his slight pause, and too much relief at his answer, to interrogate what it means. Camilla lets out a long breath she didn't realize she was holding, feeling her muscles relax a little all the way down to her toes.
"All right," she says, as much to herself as anything else. "All right."
He knows her. He hasn't had his memory of her taken; he even knows that he would always know her, as she is certain she would know him. That's enough to start with; it has to be. But how is it that you can be certain of your love for someone and not know their name?
On impulse, she catches at his hand as he hands her the handkerchief, holds it between her own for just a moment as if to prove he's real, before straightening up and less sentimentally taking the cloth and pinching her nose, checking it again. "It's just a nosebleed," she says, affectionately bemused. "I'll live."
There's so much else that's worse. His worry. Appearing here, with the bizarre sun that doesn't move; knowing so little, so much of her self missing -- though unfortunately not devoid of the sense that she usually knows things. How little she can recall of specifics of the Master Warden but how much she can feel, under her skin, inside her ribs, reaching, stretching, longing: as though the two of them standing here facing each other is still not close enough.
She ought to be able to command the minutae of them: how they met, what they've been through, what it means to be his Hand. His name, at least, by the Emperor and all his Saints.
(That's new -- The pain behind her eye twinges insistently, and she can feel her nose wet and warm with new blood.)
She blinks at it, pinching it closed and leaning forward, making a little bit of a protesting noise in reaction to both the burst blood vessel and his words. "But --" She sighs, taking a long breath and trying to calm her heart rate. After a moment she lifts her eyes to his. "I don't have to make a note. You're my catalyst."
And isn't he always?
"Just...let it float away. Perfect." She takes another long breath, rocking forward and back and feeling herself sink in the sand, then opens her eyes abruptly, all done with dwelling. "Current events, then. Who's they and what is this place?"
no subject
"All right," she says, as much to herself as anything else. "All right."
He knows her. He hasn't had his memory of her taken; he even knows that he would always know her, as she is certain she would know him. That's enough to start with; it has to be. But how is it that you can be certain of your love for someone and not know their name?
On impulse, she catches at his hand as he hands her the handkerchief, holds it between her own for just a moment as if to prove he's real, before straightening up and less sentimentally taking the cloth and pinching her nose, checking it again. "It's just a nosebleed," she says, affectionately bemused. "I'll live."
There's so much else that's worse. His worry. Appearing here, with the bizarre sun that doesn't move; knowing so little, so much of her self missing -- though unfortunately not devoid of the sense that she usually knows things. How little she can recall of specifics of the Master Warden but how much she can feel, under her skin, inside her ribs, reaching, stretching, longing: as though the two of them standing here facing each other is still not close enough.
She ought to be able to command the minutae of them: how they met, what they've been through, what it means to be his Hand. His name, at least, by the Emperor and all his Saints.
(That's new --
The pain behind her eye twinges insistently, and she can feel her nose wet and warm with new blood.)
She blinks at it, pinching it closed and leaning forward, making a little bit of a protesting noise in reaction to both the burst blood vessel and his words. "But --" She sighs, taking a long breath and trying to calm her heart rate. After a moment she lifts her eyes to his. "I don't have to make a note. You're my catalyst."
And isn't he always?
"Just...let it float away. Perfect." She takes another long breath, rocking forward and back and feeling herself sink in the sand, then opens her eyes abruptly, all done with dwelling. "Current events, then. Who's they and what is this place?"