(no subject)
Though solitary by nature, Camilla has spent her entire life as part of a pair. Her earliest memories are of her small, fat toddler fingers intertwined with those of her brother's, and the murmurs of friends and relatives, first charmed, then awed, then baffled, These two are inseparable, aren't they? The twin angels. The odd pair. Two halves of a whole. That had been she and Charles since the moment they were born. Though not nearly as identical as most people seem to imagine, more than once - in childhood, and even more recently, too - they had dressed as each other (for a test, for a game, for a lark), and it wasn't any similarity in the shape of their faces or the color of their eyes that had fooled teachers, and friends, and relatives alike - it was that Charles and Camilla Macaulay so knew each others' souls that to pretend to be one was to merely be themselves.
Never before had they been parted for more than a week. Now, Camilla has not seen her brother for months, and it is as though a piece of her has been ripped out raw.
She is very good at hiding it, that constant ache of absence, as she is at hiding most of what goes on behind her eyes. The pain she buried in a lump at the back of her throat as soon as she realized that there would be no leaving Tabula Rasa, no fetching her twin from the other side of the universe. Every time she swallows, she feels that lump, but it's hidden deep enough to let her laugh, and scheme, and play the cool, contented princess.
But dams, when built against such are current, are bound to break eventually.
The catalyst for her sorrow might be called unexpected. Camilla has always had a secret penchant for fantasy - Lewis and Tolkein, Grimm's Fairy Tales and Le Mort D'Arthur - and that's what draws her to a new title on the bookshelf, The Golden Compass. Curious and intrigued, she takes it to the sofa, where she curls up and swiftly disappears deep into the world of this imaginary Oxford, with its armored bears, and witches, and Dust, and daemons.
But the tale turns dark. Daemons ripped from children, adults severed from bits of their souls and left not-quite-human. There's something in the absent faces and crushing pain of these imaginary beings that strikes right at her heart. The hurt she has been hiding rips open wide and she feels her brother's absence afresh. Charles. Charles is her daemon. How can she be whole without him? How can she live? Why would she wish to?
The book slips from her fingers as hot tears roll down her cheeks, and Camilla is certain she is suffocating, and will continue to suffocate until her Charles is returned to her. Sorrow has come to collect, and with interest, too, for as she curls more tightly in a ball on the rec room couch, her body trembles with the silent sobs. Charles, she thinks fiercely, something like a prayer. Charles, Charles, Charles.
Someone is watching her, she realizes, and she meet's their gaze with the glare of a cat sharp enough that one can perfectly imagine a hiss accompanying the look. She has no barbs to throw, no sallies or quips, for her heart is too full of everything she has been trying so hard to bury.
Never before had they been parted for more than a week. Now, Camilla has not seen her brother for months, and it is as though a piece of her has been ripped out raw.
She is very good at hiding it, that constant ache of absence, as she is at hiding most of what goes on behind her eyes. The pain she buried in a lump at the back of her throat as soon as she realized that there would be no leaving Tabula Rasa, no fetching her twin from the other side of the universe. Every time she swallows, she feels that lump, but it's hidden deep enough to let her laugh, and scheme, and play the cool, contented princess.
But dams, when built against such are current, are bound to break eventually.
The catalyst for her sorrow might be called unexpected. Camilla has always had a secret penchant for fantasy - Lewis and Tolkein, Grimm's Fairy Tales and Le Mort D'Arthur - and that's what draws her to a new title on the bookshelf, The Golden Compass. Curious and intrigued, she takes it to the sofa, where she curls up and swiftly disappears deep into the world of this imaginary Oxford, with its armored bears, and witches, and Dust, and daemons.
But the tale turns dark. Daemons ripped from children, adults severed from bits of their souls and left not-quite-human. There's something in the absent faces and crushing pain of these imaginary beings that strikes right at her heart. The hurt she has been hiding rips open wide and she feels her brother's absence afresh. Charles. Charles is her daemon. How can she be whole without him? How can she live? Why would she wish to?
The book slips from her fingers as hot tears roll down her cheeks, and Camilla is certain she is suffocating, and will continue to suffocate until her Charles is returned to her. Sorrow has come to collect, and with interest, too, for as she curls more tightly in a ball on the rec room couch, her body trembles with the silent sobs. Charles, she thinks fiercely, something like a prayer. Charles, Charles, Charles.
Someone is watching her, she realizes, and she meet's their gaze with the glare of a cat sharp enough that one can perfectly imagine a hiss accompanying the look. She has no barbs to throw, no sallies or quips, for her heart is too full of everything she has been trying so hard to bury.