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]

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.