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Camilla doesn’t remember how to smile.
A comment from a man on a street corner – your Warden wouldn’t like it if you killed him, Pyrrha hissed to her as she put a hand at the small of Camilla’s back and hustled her on – rings in her ears as she fills the bathtub. Beyond one door, the body housing the soul of either the cavalier or necromancer of the Ninth House sleeps. Beyond the other, Pyrrha keeps a silent watch.
She’s always watching, it seems. Camilla can’t decide if it’s because she’s unfamiliar with Camilla and wants to understand her, or if it’s because she thinks Camilla is a danger to herself and others. She can’t find it within herself to care one way or another.
She finds she doesn’t care about much these days. She scrubs herself down with quick, perfunctory strokes and avoids looking in the mirror as she brushes out her hair and cleans her teeth.
She can’t help but look at her mouth, then. There were lines around it, like most mouths, lines etched there from years of pursing lips and small smiles. When she stretches her lips into something that could be construed as a smile, it feels and looks so wrong that she lurches back from the mirror on reflex.
She drops the toothbrush. It slams into the sink and tumbles to the ground. Camilla doesn’t catch it; her eyes are on herself in the mirror and she sees the grey eyes, and her entire body lurches back a clumsy half-step.
“Camilla, are you-” Pyrrha pushes the door open, stopping short of entering when she sees the look on Camilla’s face. “Hey.” Her voice drops, turning soft and almost painfully worried. “You’re okay. Come here, sit down.”
Camilla doesn’t want to sit down. She wants to break the mirror. She wants to stare at those beautiful eyes forever. She wants her old eyes back. She wants to go two weeks back in time and warn herself of what would happen when she took his soul unto herself.
“Hey,” Pyrrha says again. Camilla sits down. The edge of the tub bites into the back of her calves. Pyrrha runs one broad hand over her shoulder blades in a gesture so paternal that Camilla has to clench her fists to chase away her sudden yearning for her fathers.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Pyrrha asks, clearly not even a little surprised when Camilla shakes her head. “Figures.” She scoffs a bit, probably at herself. “You don’t really talk about anything, do you?”
That was also the day Camilla realized she’s forgotten how to speak again, too.
Thank you for the progress update, Cam. I’m sure
it’s not easy taking the night shift with the body. I’m
happy to pick up the slack if that helps.
No, Warden. You need the rest. We still aren’t sure how
much energy is expended doing what we’re attempting,
and I’d rather be the one managing the impacts on the body.
Whatever you want, Cam.
I want you to
Anything else, Warden?
Want me to what, Camilla?
Why does our throat feel strange? Have you been
eating and drinking?
I want you to be here.
I want many things I shouldn’t
Yes, Warden. I’m keeping the body on an
appropriate feeding schedule.
I know. I’m sorry. You have no idea.
Ha ha. You’re hilarious, Scholar.
Are you speaking, Cam?
No. Not often. There’s nothing to say.
I’m sure you can recall the literature on trauma
and the various ways it manifests itself in the
body, Camilla.
Yes. I can.
You speak. Into the tape recorder.
Yes, darling girl, I do. That’s how I know our throat feels
strange. The recorder is for both of us.
Please use it. I miss your words in your voice.
Camilla holds the recorder so tightly the tape rattles in its enclosure and remembers the hastily-scrawled note in the handwriting that is hers-but-not that said, please do not break this, it was a gift.
Pyrrha had found it for them three days after they claimed this apartment for their own. Camilla had explained the situation – “Two people in one body,” Pyrrha had said, sighing, “I’m familiar with the concept.” – and Pyrrha had come back the next morning with the recorder.
“I should have talked to my- to the guy whose body I’m wearing,” she said gruffly when Camilla looked at her with questioning eyes. “You should be able to talk to each other.”
It was the first kindness Pyrrha had ever shown them. Palamedes had taken it with gratitude that, in Camilla’s opinion, bordered on excessive. Judging by how relieved Pyrrha was that Camilla never talked about it again, she agreed.
“You’re stalling,” Pyrrha calls from the kitchen. “The kiddie will be awake soon.”
Camilla forces her thumb to press the button. “The patient shows no signs of relapse, but no signs of improvement. Nighttime heart rate suggests she dreams, but she doesn’t wake. Still no demonstrated speech capability.”
CLACK. “You sound so formal, Camilla. When I said I missed your voice, I didn’t mean it like this.”
CLACK. “My apologies, Warden. I’m tired.”
CLACK. “Cam. Please. Talk to me.”
CLACK. “I…” Camilla can’t. She can’t make her mouth form the words. She’s forgotten how to speak, again, like she had two weeks ago, like she had when Blood of Eden tried to take him from her. Emotion rises in her like the angry ocean tide and – despite thousands of hours spend editing romantic missives, writing her own notes in the margins and whispering them under covers where no one but Palamedes could hear them – she cannot find the words to release any of them.
Rewind. CLACK. “I can’t. Pyrrha and…whoever this is could hear. I’m sorry.”
CLACK. “There were tears in your eyes. I could feel them, and the way your cheeks always warm when you’re upset. Would you talk about it if you could?”
Camilla doesn’t answer.
I’m sorry I didn’t finish our conversation, Warden.
I can’t talk about it. It hurts, and I probably should talk about it, like I should talk about the scars on my ankle and arms, like I should talk about how it felt to find your soul in those bones after months of waiting and hoping and praying. I should talk about it. But I can’t.
If you were here and I could lay back in our bed and put my arm over my eyes and tell you that way, I would. I always imagined that would be how I told you I loved you, simply because I can’t ever look at you when telling you hard things. But you’re not here.
I should be better. I should tell you more than just what I can write behind stricken-out, words because if they’re crossed out they can’t be real. I should…well, I should be editing this letter as I write because you deserve more than this, too. More than…me. I suppose.
I’m sorry.
Phantom pains in her ankle drive Camilla out of bed; she’s used to waking up at odd hours, usually thanks to a bright light or a dropped book plus some cursing, but the thing that gets her out of bed and standing awkwardly in the doorway is equal parts the desire to move until the nightmare courses out of her system and the worry over waking Pyrrha up.
The other woman stirs, as if summoned into waking by Camilla’s thoughts. “What’s wrong?” she asks blearily, sitting up and bracing her hands on the couch.
Camilla doesn’t mean to speak. She doesn’t mean to move. But the dream had been about the day she was shocked into hospitalization, and she had woken up not able to breathe right, and she had reached for a body that would never be there again–
And she doesn’t realize she’s crying until Pyrrha is standing before her, warm hands dashing tears from her cheeks and low voice murmuring, “I know, come on, I know.”
Camilla wraps her arms around her shaking body and lets Pyrrha scrounge up the last bag of the tea they both like. She holds the mug in her hands and doesn’t really feel the warmth, and when Pyrrha leans forward and says, “This is going to kill you if you don’t stop it,” she can’t bring herself to say anything at all in response.
“I mean it.” Pyrrha looks at Camilla like she can read her mind. “This is going to kill you if you let it.” She waves a hand at Camilla’s body. “This… You, walking around like a ticking time bomb of shit you can’t talk about.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Camilla only barely resists the urge to spit out the leftover tears trailing into her lips. “It can’t matter.”
“Saying that doesn’t make it true.”
“Oh fuck you.” Camilla’s chest hurts too much to properly inflect. “I don’t need advice from-”
“Save it.” Pyrrha sounds…tired. Unspeakably tired, like Camilla has sucked every ounce of fight out of her. “I’m too old to argue with a kid about what does or doesn’t matter. But it’s eating you alive, and Sextus knows it’s eating you alive, and he’s a pain in the ass when he thinks something’s wrong with you, specifically.”
Camilla doesn’t know what to say to that. The mental image of him, worried hands – her hands, now, God, that’s so so wrong – fluttering and eyes scanning her face in the mirror, searching for any clue as to what ails her, breaks her heart.
She lost time again. Pyrrha has moved, is kneeling before her, turning Camilla’s chair to make Camilla look into Pyrrha’s face. “Cam, honey,” she murmurs, and the term of endearment that would normally make Camilla bristle makes her relax instead. “I know it hurts. I know you might not be able to talk about it. But something has to give or you’re going to explode into a thousand messy, ugly pieces that not even Wonder Boy himself can put back together.”
Explode. The word, the phrasing is so absurdly not-funny, painful, and insane that Camilla can’t help but laugh. The sound grates over her throat and molars, shreds her lungs farther down, and makes her dig her nails into her thighs so she doesn’t do something stupid like rake them down her arms.
“Okay, and see, I thought none of my jokes were funny…” Pyrrha is bewildered, confused, concerned; she tells Camilla to “pipe down or you’ll wake up the kid,” and Camilla claps a hand over her mouth and forces herself to breathe. Explode . A thousand messy pieces.
She’s not a thousand pieces. She’s not even a whole person anymore. She’s not two people. She’s nothing. Just a shell, an empty vessel walking around, serving a purpose and then tucking herself back onto a shelf when she’s not needed.
She is also, says the sensible voice in the back of her mind that hurts to listen to, probably cracking up due to exhaustion, and should probably sleep if the state of her internal monologue is anything to go by.
She falls asleep on Pyrrha’s couch and when she wakes, the notebook is already close at hand.
Why are we on the couch?
Long story, Warden. I had a nightmare and then…I
suppose I fell asleep.
So not that long of a story, hm?
I’m sorry I can’t be there to wake you anymore.
I know. Me too.
I didn’t disturb the patient or her dreams.
Pyrrha monitored.
I’m not worried about that right now, Cam. I’m worried
about you.
I’m…surviving. I’m not fine. But I’m surviving.
Wasn’t there a song about that? At some point?
I seem to remember Juno having dug around through the
Archives and finding an audio file. Something about “what can I
say? I’m surviving,” and so on.
I don’t know that song.
Find me the recorder. I’ll try to sing it. I distinctly remember
that we both heard it. Whatever she was using to play the music got
stuck and Kiana roped us into helping turn it off. Something about
your strength and my thin hands.
This is not how we are supposed to be
using our resources, Warden.
This is not how any of this was supposed to happen, Camilla.
I’m sorry. For making you cry. For all of it.
I would do it again.