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Camilla Hect is dreaming. She knows this the moment that she opens her eyes and finds herself lying next to the sleeping form of her necromancer. Palamedes Sextus lies halfway underneath the covers, halfway sprawled-out with his limbs dangling over the edge of the metal bed frame as though he dragged himself into the room and collapsed into the mattress. His glasses are still perched on his nose, but they are askew and in danger of breaking if he were to turn the wrong direction in his sleep.
Camilla's gaze lingers on the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The room is mostly dark because of the dark sheets of flimsy that are taped to the wall, but a few rays of white light peek out from behind tiny holes where some of the tape has peeled off. It's just enough to illuminate parts of Palamedes's tan face, and Camilla can make out a few of the faint freckles that she makes his face that much more soft and kissable.
She reaches for him with a calloused hand and hovers over his cheek, torn between taking the glasses to prevent them from meeting an untimely end or touching him, ever so gently as to not rouse him from whatever dream he might be having. This is not to say that Cam hesitates; she is not a woman who hesitates before acting. She simply weighs her options and settles on the one that is less likely to wake him. The glasses are gently plucked from the wearer, whose nose minimally twitches at the loss, but he quickly relaxes and continues to sleep.
The metal frames feel cold and stiff and real in her hands; Camilla holds them close to her chest and sighs. She wishes that she could have saved more of him from Canaan House than a fragment of his skull. The real Warden's glasses were blown to pieces with everything else, laid to rest in an unsalvageable heap of metal scraps and broken glass.
"Why hold onto those when I'm right here?"
Camilla nearly jolts. Palamedes blinks back at her with a set of tired eyes that are far too dark to belong to him. He grins up at his companion and barks out a laugh. "Have you been awake this whole time, Warden?" Cam asks, furrowing her brow.
"As in throughout the whole night, or within the last five minutes?" Palamedes asks. "I can assure you that it was not the former. I heard you wake up. Didn't think you were going to yank my glasses off."
"Wouldn't have had to if you took better care of them."
"Cam."
"Palamedes."
The Warden squints and huffs out air through his nostrils. "May I relieve you of your sacred duty to guard my spectacles from my own body so that I can see your beautiful face?"
The corners of Camilla's mouth curve upward. "Gladly, Warden." She unfolds the arms of his glasses and leans down as if to slide them back onto Palamedes's face, but before she can complete her task he surges forward to press his lips against her own. His touch feels more like a memory fluttering against her skin, fleeting in its duration yet full of a yearning that leaves a cold shock rattling through the marrow of Camilla's bones. Something wet stings her eyes, forcing her to blink them shut. When she opens them once more, her tear-stricken expression is mirrored in the clear and bright grey pools of Palamedes's eyes. When she blinks again, the light darkens to a familiar, warm shade- and she knows them as her own eyes. Even in her dreams Camilla is reminded of their merge, the state of incomplete lyctorhood that leaves both of their souls only half-woven together like an abandoned knitting project.
The Palamedes in her dream sees her expression harden, and he presses his palm against her own. "Cam," he says, wiping some of the tears away with the pad of his thumb, "Cam, don't-"
"It isn't fair. I know you're somewhere in my mind but I can't feel you. I can't talk to you. I can only find my thoughts and memories of the man you were, I can't talk to the real you."
Palamedes appears to ponder on this. If Camilla were a figment in his dream and he had said those words to her, she might have felt insulted. But he nods, and he says, "I know."
"You're a figment of my imagination," Camilla says flatly. "Of course you know what I'm thinking."
"I would posit that it is not that far off from how things were when I was alive and in my own body," Palamedes says. "You think of me fondly, enough to envision me kissing you. And if my soul is half as enmeshed with memories of you, he must be just as fond of the magnificent woman he sees in his dreams. So please don't cry, dear one. Keep your head up and know that your love and grief is shared with him."
Even if the wisdom Palamedes has imparted on her is merely a projection of what she already knows to be true, it is nice to hear it from him regardless. Camilla wipes the opposite side of her face with a grey sleeve, leaving a wet stain on the cuff. "If he shares my grief, does that mean our love manifests within our dreams too?" She muses. "Is that what you are, Warden? If you are not my Warden, are you my love and grief encapsulated within his memory?"
Palamedes shrugs as best he can while lying horizontally. "How can I be sure? In this state, all that I am is only made up of what you know."
"Point taken, Warden."
"Good. Now can I have my glasses back?"
Camilla glances at the metal and glass encased in her grip, then hands them back to the man lying next to her. Her face suddenly feels hot. Her clear grey eyes dart away and suddenly finds the chipped spot of paint on the ceiling to be incredibly interesting. "All yours."
"You completely forgot, didn't you?" Palamedes's laughter rings throughout the room. "You are not yourself, Camilla Hect."
"I did not forget. I was..." A pause. "Distracted."
He laughs harder. "Sure, we'll go with that."
Camilla lets out a displeased grunt, but she pulls her Warden close to her chest and buries her face in his wispy bird's nest of hair. "I am revoking your talking privileges. It's quiet time now." Palamedes's laughs trickle down into soft chuckles, muffled by the soft cotton of Camilla's shirt. He clings to the fabric and says, "Good morning to you too, Cam."
The body in Camilla's arms starts to rustle after a while. Long strands of frizzled hair tickle her nose, and her facial features scrunch up as though she had tasted a sour lemon. When Camilla blinks, a pair of big, curious golden irises stare back at her. "Camilla? Are you okay?" The figure asks, her voice soft and weighed down with sleep. Camilla looks down and realizes that she is holding a girl in both of her arms, something she almost never did and it was certainly not the position that she fell asleep in.
"Nona...?" Camilla blinks. Upon taking a closer look, the smaller girl's cheeks appear slightly damp. Camilla quickly swipes away the wetness with her finger and says, "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I'm fine, it was just..."
She is unsure of how to explain it, so she lets her words trail off into silence. Nona watches her for a few moments, then once she realizes she will not get a response she says, "It's okay. You stopped crying when I hugged you like Palamedes hugs me when I'm sad, so I hope that it helped."
Camilla's eyes widen for the slightest moment, taken aback by Nona's words. Then she flashes one of her rare smiles, complete with tiny wrinkles at the corners of her glassy eyes. "Thank you. It did help."
Satisfied, Nona wriggles out of Camilla's muscular arms and hops up from the mattress. It creaks and groans in protest of the shifting weight. "I'm going to say good morning to Pyrrha, and I'll give her a hug if she's sad too." The girl seems determined now that she knows that hugging someone the way Palamedes hugs is helpful. Distantly Camilla wonders if Nona will try to solve all of the city's problems this way (and the answer is probably yes), and her smile grows even bigger.
"I'll catch up with you. Brush your teeth before you say hi to Pyrrha, your breath stinks."
"Good morning to you too," Nona says breezily, giggling as she leaves the room. The chilly sensation of déjà vu makes Camilla's spine shudder, but it's good. It's not until Nona leaves that Camilla realizes she had neglected to record her dream, but she does not make an effort to call Nona back. Taking a rest day wouldn't hurt. Something in the back of her mind assures her that Palamedes would approve.