open RP, corridors: Camilla as a child.

[c-macaulay.livejournal.com]

(( Camilla has eaten some magical chocolate and is now seven years old. ))

It's a make-believe place, isn't it? She's in a castle. She must be dreaming. It's a beautiful dream, Camilla thinks.

She seems to know where things are, here, in the way of dreams, even though she doesn't remember any of it really. That way's the Great Hall, not knowing what the Great Hall actually is, only somehow knowing its name and if she follows that particular turn in the corridors that's where she'll end up. That's the way out to the courtyard, though she's not sure what's in the courtyard.

Inquisitive, she wanders, that first exuberant skipping long since slowed to a sedate walk.

Comments

[c-macaulay.livejournal.com]

She just can't believe that. There's something he isn't telling her. She supposes (wrongly) that it's how to become grown up. Holding the secret over her head. "You don't like it when I keep secrets from you. I don't like it when you keep secrets from me, either. But fine. If you won't tell me how to become the same as you are, then you come back with me and be little again. We're twins. You can't just go and be whatever you want without me," she says, angry and sad and hurt all at once.

[chas-macaulay.livejournal.com]

"I don't know how to do that either," he says miserably. "I would if I could. But I don't know how I got this way and I don't know how to undo it either."

Which is true in so many more ways than little-Camilla can possibly imagine, and Charles would very much like to keep it that way.

[c-macaulay.livejournal.com]

He really does sound miserable. Camilla would be able to tell that much at any age. It just frustrates her all the more. "Then you're not thinking hard enough about it." Neither of them has ever been very fond of hard work. For this, though, he has to be willing to work. "We can play cards after." She's just as miserable. But she refuses to cry. She sets her jaw. She can be as stubborn as he can. More stubborn.

[chas-macaulay.livejournal.com]

Charles frowns. How to placate her? He's fairly certain neither of them is in fact dreaming, he hasn't learned any spells or even bought a wand yet, and he has no idea how or why Camilla can have become small again.

He bites his lip. "What were we doing before we started dreaming? Do you remember?"

[c-macaulay.livejournal.com]

Camilla is reaching the end of her patience. She's almost certain he's trying to distract her. "I don't know what you were doing. You started out somewhere different from me, remember? And you said you were eating lunch." She sits back on her heels, her cards still held close. "I was reading something that I don't understand. Before that ..." She shuts her eyes tight and tries to straighten it out.

"I think I was having a nightmare before that, but it got better for a little while when I came to the magic castle," she says, opening her eyes, small grave troubled face looking up at her brother. "And now it's being a nightmare again. We're never supposed to be different than one another. This is worse than the one about ... you know." For a week after their parents' funeral Camilla had the same dream over and over.

Being without her parents is manageable. Being without her brother is unimagineable.

"What do you remember?" She throws the question back at him. Hot potato.

[chas-macaulay.livejournal.com]

Charles flinches; he does know what dream she means, that awful first week when they didn't know what was going to become of them. "This isn't like that, Milly. It's a good dream, not..." He frowns. "I remember being alone for a while. But I think I was dreaming that too. This is better."

[c-macaulay.livejournal.com]

The opacity of it vexes her. "It isn't better at all if you won't share," Camilla shoots back. "If you'd tell me how, we could be grown-ups together. I didn't even see who you were at first, Charles. You had to tell me. And now I know you're you, but you're not the right you, or you won't tell me how to be the right me." Despairing, she wants to cling to him for comfort even though he's what's upsetting her. She wants to fling herself at him with all the weight and momentum her small body can exert.

Instead, she scoots away with as much dignity as is possible in scooting, and climbs off the bed. For a moment she stands there at the side of the bed and glares at him, mute with rage and frustration and sadness and pain, pain most of all.

There's only one thing to do, when he's made her this unhappy. He has to be made to understand how unhappy she is. That's not best done in words.

She makes a dash for the door. As she runs away, she's biting her lip so she won't cry. Everything's broken.

She's still clutching her hand of cards, too, and that's on purpose: he can't play solitaire while she's gone, with part of the deck missing.