nysalogs | Forgetting is such sweet sorrow

(Mood music (spotify link))

[It doesn't take very long for Cam to figure out it's an illusion. Or a vision, or something. There's not many other ways to explain why one minute he was walking in a open grassland, and in the next, in the audience in a grand theater. Among him are visions of honored guests, elves and dwarves and a—oh yeah. Cam immediately gets up out of his seat, passing through the familiar members of the Guild on his way to stand directly behind a gold and red dragonborn sitting in the center of the crowd. To the untrained eye this guy looks important, but that doesn't stop Cam from... waving his arms through the figure, covering his eyes and all-in-all just being a giant nuisance to the vision of Korak. Nothing personal, it's just hard to resist harassing the big, serious, Champion of Talis'val.

Even in the crowd, it's not hard to notice when a familiar man enters, looking perplexed and out of place among this party of the snobby, upper echelons of Talis'Val. Valjean doesn't have to wander for long before Cam calls out,]

Faushe! Over here!

[And he's totally sitting exactly in the same spot as Korak, waving his arms in just the right position so that it looks like the dragonborn might have a second pair of human arms coming out of his shoulders.]

Edited 2018-04-13 02:16 (UTC)

[Perplexed and displaced are indeed fitting descriptors to append to Jean Valjean in this moment. How bewildering it is to find the scenery changed as instantaneously as dark shifts to light when a lantern is lit! And although he has now passed two months in this strange land, still he is startled to see as he navigates the crowd that some of the guests around him resemble creatures more than men.

Then comes that familiar sobriquet, but he sees no familiar face to accompany it. However, his keen eyes discern the odd illusion of arms protruding from the serpentine creature's (man's?) shoulders - ordinary human arms, the movement disjointed from the illusory creature's regal disposition. He approaches with uncertainty plain on his countenance.]

...Monsieur Buckland? Is that you? What has happened?

[Cam is grinning like a cat by the time Faushe approaches. He rises up enough so that his head appears like it's sitting on Kora's shoulder.]

Beats me. But we're definitely in a memory. [Simple, casual, like of course they're just wandering around in Cam's memories, there's nothing concerning about that. Cam points at the large dragonborn he's been harassing,] Check this out. This is Korak! He's like, a super big deal back home. And there's Giles! And Franco! [A human, then a halfling, but from Valjean's perspective, Cam might as well be just be pointing out random faces in the crowd.] And—

[He stops short as another figure joins them. A blue skinned elf with beautiful blue and purple hair, and a circlet bearing a silver moon on her forehead. His grin is only slightly subdued at the sight of one of his dear companions. She sits next to Korak, the Dragonborn addressing her as Miss Galanodel.] This is one of my friends from back home.

[His gaze follows where Cam points, although the trajectory of a quickly thrust finger is difficult to precisely gauge. Less difficult to gauge is the reason behind his sagging smile when the azure skinned woman approaches.]

You must miss her.

[Not a question, but a statement. He sets it down gently. Although the people around them are immaterial, memories come to life but not incarnate, he steps out of the way when one walks by. To allow the memories to break upon him like waves upon a rock, or to pass through him like mist, strikes him as disconcerting for reasons he cannot pin down in words. They are as ghosts rising from the grave.

Indeed, that memories might be wandered through like a physical place, preserved for all to see, strikes him as a nightmare.]

[The full implications of having his memories on display for all to see will hit Cam eventually, but while they're still tucked inside of happy, emotionally-safe memories, he doesn't seem to mind.]

Yeah, she's alright. [Anything else he was going to say is cut off by a grand announcement on the stage: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, Cam Buckland of the Buckland family." Cam grabs Faushe by the sleeve, urging him to take a seat in one of the already-occupied seats next to him.

The first act is not Cam, however, but a teenage girl with purple skin and horns. She stands center stage, reading a poem. Before my bed, the moon is shining bright, I think that it is frost upon the ground, I raise my head and I look at the bright moon, I lower my head and I think of home.

Cam leans over, whispering,] Don't worry, it really picks up in the second act.

Edited 2018-04-15 23:22 (UTC)

[The announcement from the stage pulls his attention away so that when Cam yanks down on his sleeve, he very nearly stumbles into the lap of a nearby woman. He catches his balance - his reflexes are sharp, and a man of his stature is not so easy to budge. Although the woman is merely an illusion pulled from Cam's memories, and he of no matter to her, embarrassment touches his features. He straightens his collar although it requires no such attention.]

I would prefer to stand. I can see better, and if we are not truly here, then I cannot impede the view.

[He listens to the end of the poem, then looks to Cam.]

I did not know you were a performer.

[Although he does have that gypsy look about him.]

[Cam nods, eyes transfixed on the stage. He knows how this goes, it is his performance after all, but getting to watch was a new thing. When he opens his mouth to respond, a voice from stage cuts him off, his voice, "And now, for some real entertainment."

Jiutou has disappeared by now, the stage empty and awaiting it's second act. Suddenly, a figure drops from the rafters above the stage. There's the sound of tearing as something that was apparently supposed to stop his descent fails, and he dumps unceremoniously onto the stage. The crowd nearby laughs, assuming it was part of the act, but the real Cam's cheeks heat up and he glances away. Oh yeah.

Memory-Cam recovers easily enough, moving into the next bit: "But wait! What approaches from the edge of the curtain?! Perhaps! A hideous monster!" From side stage, a wooden pig is wheeled out, eliciting a confused laugh from the audience.] It was a dragon! It was supposed to be a dragon—

[The pig is vanquished in a spectacular show of lightning and color smoke. The performance goes on from there, teeter-totering between serious and ridiculous. The audience is entertained all the same, but Trixania's backstage treachery is altogether invisible to anyone who isn't Cam, watching as spells weave to turn the performance of a lifetime into a comedy act. There's a display of acrobatics on stage now, with the demon child joining Cam back on stage, doing flips and breathing fire.

It's in the middle of a knife-juggling routine, it starts off well enough but ends with Cam's trousers around his ankles, when the real Cam gets to his feet turning to Faushe,] You know, we should go. I can tell you how the rest of it goes later.

Edited 2018-04-16 01:21 (UTC)

[Although opera and ballet had flourished in Paris, Jean Valjean has never set foot inside a theater, with his life first characterized by poverty, then wretchedness, and then finally austerity. He has never witnessed a performance such that the memory of Cam now creates on stage. He finds himself momentarily mesmerized by the flashing light and billowing smoke, the daring feats of acrobatics and juggling.

Yet when he looks to the present-day Cam beside him, it is plain that the performance is not following its maker's designs. When at last Cam rises from his seat, purposing to leave before more can go awry, Jean Valjean immediately accedes to his wishes.]

Very well. Let us go.

[And so he follows as Cam wends his way through the rows of seats, and the audience erupts in laughter at the continued antics on stage. Once they have made it to the door in the back of the theater, he says in consolation:]

You were doing quite well in persevering when the act went wrong.

[Then they push through the door, and what else he might have said dissipates in his throat. The scenery shifts around them, at first melting like wax under a flame, then vanishing into darkness. This lasts for only the space of a breath before a new scene forms from the chaos of the storm. Evening has fallen around Jean Valjean and Cam, and around them springs the squat cottages and twisting narrow roads of a village that Jean Valjean slowly recognizes with a lurch of his heart. Digny, unchanged since last he saw it fourteen years ago. Unchanged, he realizes with dismay, because this is a memory.]

[Feigning ignorance,] What? Everything went fine. [Which is definitely why he wanted to beat it out of there before he could keep watching himself be made a fool of. It's a good thing that Korak liked a good laugh.

They pass through the side doors an the scene changes entirely. He wasn't sure what to expect, whether it would be the hall outside of the main performance hall, or just out of the dream, back into the fields of El Nysa entirely. What he wasn't expecting was a small cottage town, the sky dark where it had been the middle of the day before.]

Woah... [Cam does a little turn, mid-walk, getting a look around,] This isn't any of my memories. Faushe, do you know where this is?

[Jean Valjean does not answer. He has halted in his tracks as if turned to a pillar of salt. His chest tightens as if pressed upon by a great slab of stone. What draws such a reaction, the very image of pale dread, is the appearance of a figure in the road ahead: there comes toward them a man clad in what would be more aptly described as rags than clothes. On his head slouches a leather cap that obscures his sun-weathered face, over his shoulders is slung a knapsack, and in his hand is wrapped a gnarled walking stick. His hair is cropped, his beard long. His broad shoulders are hunched under a mantle of weariness and hopelessness.

It is a man buried long ago, a man who had been conquered by compassion and so conceded the territory of his soul to a higher power.]

Let us keep going.

[His voice is quite choked, bearing in this moment the mark of one restraining his true thoughts as naked flesh does bear a bruise. Without meeting Cam's eye, nor looking back toward the approaching traveler, he turns to go in the direction whence they had just come.

Behind him, the traveler has come to a door, the door of one of the finest houses in the town, and on this door he knocks sharply.]

[Despite his general… everything, Cam Buckland isn’t as thick as he lets on. Catches on to the spike of tension that surrounds Faushe. Given what they’ve already seen of Cam’s memories, played around them like a scene from the picture box on Natha’s ship, while the specifics remain a mystery, it’s not too hard to guess why.

There’s a moment of silence as he watches the man, disheveled and features obscured by dirty clothes, and Cam can’t help but be curious. Faushe was still largely a mystery, keeping a specific set of cards close to his chest but…

Some memories are better left where they belong.]

Actually, you know, I think I’ve seen this place before. [Cam turns from the apparition, at a slight jog to catch up to Faushe,] Looks a lot like Greybell. Guess the storm isn’t too picky with its memories.

[Playing dumb, but he can’t help but cast a curious eye over his shoulder, back to the man in the rags.]

[His pace quickens as he pushes ahead, purposing to find the way out of this memory he has too often retread. His eyes sharpen, the old instinct for escape seizing him. Cam's words fall feebly against the dull roar in his ears as his thoughts turn to a riot between fear and reason. What could a glimpse have given away? The man he was is no longer recognizable as himself, so why should Cam find him within those weather-beaten features?

He slows again. He attempts to tame his countenance, carriage, and voice into neutrality before turning his eyes to Cam.]

I expect this shall not last much longer.

[Yet when he looks up the road, the way has bent backward to bring them facing the house outside which the traveler had stood. Even as he stops, arrested by shock and dread, the distance between his feet and the door seems to shrink, as if the memory itself possesses a sort of momentum or gravity that compels him to retrace this night.

Shortly, Jean Valjean and Cam stand in the doorway, the traveler having left open the door when he was beckoned to enter. The ragged man stands just inches before them with his back turned so that they look over his shoulders as he addresses the small assembly within. An old man sits before the fire, and at the table sit two old women; the latter are evidently alarmed by the stranger's appearance, while the former listens calmly. The traveler is in the midst of explaining his troubles: sent away by innkeepers and the turnkey at the prison, driven away even by a dog in its kennel, he was forced to take up shelter in some doorway on the square, until a kind woman directed him to this house.

I have money; my savings, one hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous which I have earned in the galleys by my work for nineteen years. I will pay. What do I care? I have money. I am very tired - twelve leagues on foot, and I am so hungry. Can I stay?

Beside Cam, Jean Valjean has forgotten how to breathe.

Madame Magloire, the man says to one of the women, put on another plate.]

[The memory is not content to let them go until it shows them what it intended to. Cam is momentarily disoriented as the ground shifts under them, the inside of the house they had just turned from suddenly directly in front.

Cam had a few guesses about the poor man. Less from his appearance and more from Faushe's reactions. Either way, it's impossible to miss that the scene in front of him was of no small significance to Faushe. Though there's nothing shameful about being poor and needy. It's hard to play dumb for too long (though Cam would give it a good go), he scratches his head, putting on a show of being confused.] Huh, this is weird.

[Very convincing. He glances over at Faushe, who looks like he might be considering passing out soon. Slowly, after a moment of deliberation, he puts a hand on the other man's shoulder,] Hey, you alright?

[His shoulder, already tight with tension, twitches underneath Cam's touch. Nor can he go on long pretending, but he nevertheless insists in a tone the thinness of which negates his words:]

I am fine.

[The traveler has now stepped further into the house, and the door has fallen shut behind him. When he turns to address the old man, his face can be plainly seen in the warm light of the lamp. His eyes are hardened and wild, the eyes of a man who has not cried for nineteen years, the eyes of a man who has learned hatred and forgotten love. His profile, however, is unmistakable beneath the untamed beard: a perceptive eye might recognize that this traveler's features are identical to those of the man who calls himself Fauchelevent.

Until this moment, Jean Valjean has stood frozen by the door. Now, thawed by panic for what he knows comes next, he turns and grasps at the door handle, only to find it unbudging.

Did you understand me? I am a galley-slave - a convict - I am just from the galleys. There is my passport, yellow as you see. That is enough to have me kicked out wherever I go.

The traveler holds up the yellow paper and reads from it. His name, Jean Valjean; his sentence, five years for burglary and fourteen years more for four attempted escapes; his ultimate judgment, a dangerous man. The old man is unmoved from his conviction to let the traveler stay. He asks the old woman to prepare a bed; he tells the traveler to keep his money, for he is not an innkeeper but a priest.

And all the while, the door does not answer to Jean Valjean's great strength. He falls still as he realizes the futility of trying further to conceal the secrets that have been pried open. With the handle still in his grasp, he bows his head and closes his eyes, at once diminishing Cam's presence and waiting for his judgment.]

[The judgement that Valjean so waits for doesn't come. Cam has settled into silence, watching as the rest of the scene is laid out pretty clearly. Eyes widen imperceptibly at the revelation, a convict, but otherwise he doesn't move, doesn't let on approval nor dismissal. He's just... taking it in. Thinking.

Finally he turns, reaching across Faushe... Valjean... whoever he is, and he grasps the handle of the door, turning it gently. It gives easily under Cam's hand, the door swinging open with ease.] Oh, this is one of those doors that opens out when you think it opens in, I get confused by those all the time!

[His voice is lighthearted, only an underlining of tension betraying it as different from normal Cam Buckland behavior.] Well, lets go!

[And he'll lead the way out of the the house,]

[He follows, dumbfounded by so calm a reception to so damning a revelation - just as the man he was had been astonished by the bishop's compassion. Before the memory fades from sight, sinking back into the depths of his mind, Jean Valjean steals a final glimpse of the bishop, his age-worn face emitting a radiance and serenity he has never beheld in all the years since.

When he turns, he and Cam are once more in Olympia, on a quiet side street empty of souls but for themselves, the Storm having compressed distance while they were swallowed up by rogue memories. With ashen face and wary eye he regards Cam.]

You have seen the man I once was.

[The words come with difficulty, his tongue offering every resistance to the release of these secrets it has kept for so long. With no man's life on the line but his own, the conviction he had mounted when he stepped into the courtroom at Arras does not bolster him now. It is only because the truth can no longer be denied that he confesses: when the sun blazes overhead, no shadows can be found in which to hide, and so man must face the light.]

No, rather I should say you have now seen the man I truly am. What will you do?

[Where Cam was happy to pretend that everything was as it was before (it was his defense mechanism, albeit not a healthy one,) Valjean presses for an answer, a judgement.

Cam looks at Valjean for a long while, jaw working in a rare moment as he takes the time to consider his words. Finally, he releases a breath. Wordlessly, he brings his right hand up, pulling at the straps on the bracer on his left forearm, loosening it, until finally he can yank it up, sleeve and all, exposing his arm. On the underside of his arm, midway between his elbow and his wrist, there is a quarter-sized symbol scarred into his flesh. A brand.]

In case I ever got arrested again.

[Kind of like Valjean's yellow papers. Cam shrugs, though he pointedly avoids looking at his own brand. It's not a fun subject.]

Just because you did something wrong doesn't mean you're a bad person.

[His expression turns to quiet astonishment once Cam reveals the brand seared into his forearm. This hideous mark elucidates the man's ready acceptance of his great shame, the deferment of judgment for his past wickedness. Here is one who too has feared ignominy and felt the indifference of the law, seen the blindness of justice]

Yes, but as you saw it is a rare soul that will give a convicted man the chance to show he can be a good man too.

[In the cold eyes of society, one becomes defined by that yellow passport and reduced to his past crimes with no chance to redress them, no chance to redeem himself. Jean Valjean looks over his shoulder to ensure that nobody is about. Turning back to Cam, containing his words to the space between them, he holds his voice down to a murmur.]

It was only after I broke parole that I was able to live an honest life. I had to take a false name and live a life apart, but at last I was regarded as a man and not an animal.

[Incidentally, Cam knew a lot about starting a new life to run away from his sins, and that had little to do with the brand on his wrist. He'd been a simple performer, part of a poor band of misfits before he ran away, found a new life as an adventurer as he found it easy to avoid confronting his problems when he could fully invest himself in the problems of others. For the greater good, yes, but also running away from his past.]

But you don't need to do that here. It's a new chance, right?

[His secret divulged, Cam rolls his sleeve back down, affixing the bracer back into place. It occurs to him that he is the only person here with any idea what the brand really means, but it doesn't make him any more willing to share it with others, because that requires confronting it himself. In this way, it makes sense how secretive Valjean has been, even surrounded by strangers who knew nothing of his crimes.]

You can go by whatever name you want, but... you've shown who you are since you came here. And you're a good person. No one here's going to care about... bread.

[For Cam's unsinking optimism he gives a wan smile, one that only floats atop his countenance without reaching further. He is grateful for the man's merciful compassion, and he appreciates such kind sentiments, but his own experiences do not lend credibility to these hopes. Overnight, the people of Montreuil-sur-mer had abandoned the man they had honored as mayor; all his good deeds were effaced from their memory, and all that remained were the crimes of a scoundrel. Thus without weight backing them, such sentiments shall remain just that.]

Perhaps not. It is true all records have been destroyed, but those who remember the records may awaken yet. Moreover, my daughter...

[His expression becomes clouded with a thin veil of anguish, his voice falters, and his gaze falls away.]

It would break her heart if she knew the truth.

[If it is for her that he lives, then it is for her that he beats back the shadows of the past. That ineffably dark place and the bright one that she inhabits must never touch. It is as if between them stretches a fastidiously constructed and maintained wall of brick - as if brick might contain dark or preserve light.]

[He listens to Valjean, his expression indecipherable. In a way, Cam knew all to well about abandonment, yet their situations couldn't be more different.

Cam had been a no-name traveler, as he always was, and while the severity of his crime far outweighed Valjean's—manslaughter; Cam got off easy. Given a brand and a command to never return to a city he never considered his own. So he was left alone to regret, to bury his shame in the same place where he buried his despair over Mirela.

It's easier, in a way, when you already have nothing to lose.

He clears his throat,] Well, I'm not going to talk about. I'll keep calling you Faushe, if that's what you want.

[A pause,] But... give your daughter a little credit. Maybe you'll be surprised.

[Just as Cosette is the world to him, he is the world to her; and he does not wish for the world to come crashing down around her when already she has suffered so much in so small a life.]

Then I shall place my confidence in you, Monsieur Buckland.

[He has no choice but to trust him, but while it is difficult to dispel the doubts that darken his heart, the Cam he knows is a kind soul. Not once has he sensed malignancy in his manner or word. Jean Valjean bows his head.]

I am...indebted to you for this burden.

[Cam claps a hand on Valjean's shoulder, smiling broadly,] Hey, it's the least I can do.

[Fausche has been a good friend since they arrived and, in the event Cam has his sordid past unfortunately thrust in front of them, it's better to know people he can rely on. But the weight of the conversation is starting to make him antsy, and Cam leans in, voice dropping to a stage whisper,] But what about a new fake name? You don't look like a Fausche. Maybe a.... Huey?

[Let Cam “Camulus” Buckland help you with a secret name.]

[He, on the other hand, does not find it so easy to lighten from a solemn mood; yet even so, he grants a smile. Out of necessity, and perhaps out of his nature too, he has avoided growing too close to anyone - save for the sole exception of Cosette, into whom he poured the full measure of his love and fondness. Now, despite the creeping fear that comes with such exposure, it is also a relief to have someone whom he might trust to hold his most fragile secrets.]

I am afraid I've grown too accustomed to this name by now.

(Mood music (spotify link))

[This scene is different. A beautiful entrance hall, floor lined with an immaculately kept red carpet, and stone walls decorated with golden sconces and a series of paintings of serious men. A family line. At the top of the stairs, a man, whose face looked more enraged than the one in his painting, a sword at his side, and his hand white-knuckling the bannister. At the bottom, Cam, looking not a year younger than he appears today, and a young woman, beautiful curly brown hair tied back in a familiar green bandanna.

They're arguing. Emphatic. Cam has the woman by the hand, urging. The man with the blade descends the stairs, slowly at first, like a predator. Eyes wide, dangerous. He extends a hand to the woman, beckoning.

She hesitates.

He snaps.

White knuckles pull the blade from it's sheath. There's a wild-eyed scuffle, and the first blood is the last. A killing blow meant for Cam goes awry, the woman giving her life to save his. There's nothing that Cam can do, what could he do.

Mirella's blood coats Cam's tunic, soaking the carpet below as he desperately tries to staunch the wound with bare hands, his lips mouthing the same word over and over again, no, no, no, no—

Blood drips from the Blackhearth blade, and it clatters to the ground, Keran Blackhearth backing away one stuttering step at a time. Finally he turns, screaming for guards—Murderer!

At the back of the hall, a second—the real Cam stands. Silent.]

[ The memory comes into sight one piece at a time, and at first JJ is enamoured. The grand surroundings like a palace out of a fairytale. The red carpet feels real and regal underneath his feet, and there's a soft smile on his face as he takes the scene in. Then, slowly, almost gently the rest of the memory filters in: the fight, silent and then more deadly as the woman moves in time with the blade.

JJ, who had been a passive, idly curious observer before this, starts then. He's aware there's nothing that he can do, but he takes one halting step forward despite himself, a gasp cutting through the muted noise of the memory. And then it starts to make sense—that's Cam in front of him, the woman bearing a resemblance to him so striking that it curls something uneasy in the pit of his stomach.

He spins around once the murderer runs away, turning his back on the bloody scene to fix wide eyes on the host of this vision. ]

Cam! What is this?

[He's been watching stiffly, transfixed. His own memory of the event was muddled, confused. Buried and ignored. Having the truth shoved in front of him in such detail dregs up raw, untreated emotions.

JJ calls his name and Cam's whole body jerks, like being woken from a heavy sleep. Unfocused eyes dart from the image of himself cradling Mirela's body, to JJ. It's not until then that he realizes the wetness on his cheeks.

Tch- [He wipes a hand over his eyes,] This is... It's sloppy work. [He walks to the side, to one of the sconces on the wall,] Yeah, see, this is all wrong. This should be over there—

[ This isn't a sight that JJ had ever thought he would see, not even after returning from the rescue operation had Cam looked so shaken. But with the scene unfolding in front of them, the bright red and the eerie stillness of Mirella in Cam's arms, he can't really blame him.

He gives the sight behind them another glance, chest tight and feeling slightly remorseful at having wandered into something so private. Cam had never offered any details about his family when JJ asked, and now he can see why. And JJ's not someone who has a lot of experience with this, he's never lived through war and bloodshed, never lost someone dear to him, so it's unlikely that he can relate or understand what kind of pain Cam must be suffering to be forced to witness this again. ]

Yeah, it is wrong.

[ But he's had plenty of experience being an older sibling. He walks over to Cam, expression somber as he reaches out to put a hand on Cam's head, guiding him closer so that he can rest his forehead on JJ's shoulder. ]

Kind of disrespectful, isn't it? Maybe you should make a formal complaint.

[He allows it for a moment, a moment of weakness, his shoulders slack and head sinks into his shoulder. He never talked about Mirella, not even to his closest companions, though they all found out by circumstance, even then he wouldn’t talk about it beyond the necessary. It was less that he didn’t want others to know, and more to shield himself, wrapping it up in layers of jokes and irrelevancy until it the sharp edges couldn’t hurt anymore. To have it brought back out into the open tore the wound he’d haphazardly stitched together right open. There’s a sound from his throat, a strangled attempt to keep it together.

Beyond him, the scene continues to unfurl. Figures enter the hallway, a handful are dressed in finery, members of the court, then there are guards, weapons drawn, flanking Keran. He points an accusatory finger at Cam, Murderer! Cam stumbles to his feet, shaking his head, but it’s his word against the lord of the keep’s. He stumbles back, clothes stained with Mirella’s blood, finally turning to flee as guards advance.

A minute later, Cam's form stiffens and he pulls away from JJ,] Come on.

[And he moves to head for the door, mindless of the specters of the past he passes right through.]

[ The noise of the guards, the sense of danger increasing, and the fact that Cam gets no peace after witnessing his sister take a blow for him. It takes a lot to rile him up, but even JJ can feel the anger welling in his belly as Cam urges him away from the scene. The sight of him running through people is jarring, but he doesn't say anything, expression marred into a troubled frown.

He catches Cam's elbow as they reach the door, halting him as he sends an uncertain glance back toward the scene unfolding behind them. ]

Where are we going? [ . . . ] Do you want to talk about it?

[ It's pretty obvious that he doesn't, but JJ's going to ask anyway. ]

[Cam stops, but doesn't look back, eyes fixed on the door in front of them. Where would it even lead? Out of the Blackhearth's keep into the city of Greybell? Out of the memory? Anywhere is better than here. Behind them he can hear the muted sound of Keran crying, distraught. He's taken Cam's place now, cradling Mirela's body like a grieving widower.

It makes his blood boil.

Through gritted teeth,] Unless I can kill that bastard while I'm here, there's nothing else to see.

[His tone is biting, and, although anger is a lot easier to deal with than grief, he feels guilty about it, JJ's not the one he's angry at. He shakes off the hand on his elbow, pushing through the large wooden door.

The scene shifts. They're outdoors, but not back on the plains of El Nysa. Cam recognizes it as the outskirts of Greybell, in the distance stands the keep, and a clocktower, the centerpiece in an immense city. Around them are wagons, circled around what looks like a long-term camp site. Around them, a variety of people are going about their day, some preparing food, or mending clothes, while others are just wasting time.

When JJ catches up, Cam is standing, watching a familiar-looking teenage boy, his long brown hair tied back, as he practices his hand stands.] Those took me forever to figure out.

[Everything is fine we are not ignoring what just happened. :|]

[ Death is no stranger to Frederick the Wary. Neither is the sight of blood, or the sorrow felt over a lost comrade, sibling, friend. But the familiar doesn't equate to the friendly or welcome, and it's a quick-spreading horror that starts in his chest once he identifies Cam as the man kneeling on the ground, voice more distraught than Fred's ever heard.

The scene is personal, deeply personal, and it feels downright wrong to bear witness to this uninvited. He considers closing his eyes and waiting it out, or even walking away until he escapes the confines of this memory. He opts for the latter, hoping to escape before Cam even realizes he's there.

A twig ends up being his downfall, completely missed in his haste to leave. Fred, even without his armor, is still a heavy man and as soon as he steps on it, the twig snaps, the sound echoing too-loud in the still-playing memory. ]

[There's no memory quite as personal, and it's effect on Cam is obvious. His face, normally broken out into a jovial grin, is ashy gray, blue eyes dark as he watches himself with surprising clarity. It was clearer even than his memory, which was clouded and muddled with trauma, months of burying it deep and refusing to acknowledge the twist of sorrow deep inside.

He watches himself fail to save her, his hands bare of their holy symbol of Avandra, not yet gifted with the abilities he now has that could have saved her. He can feel the healing magic brimming under his skin, if only he was really there, back in the past...

A twig snaps, jerking Cam out of his thoughts with a violent shudder. His eyes dart from the scene in front of him, to Frederick,] Fred— [his voice breaks, very unlike Cam, and he only then realizes that there are tears streaming from his eyes. He ducks his head, cradling his forehead in his hands as he works to pull himself together..]

[ For once, the truncation of his name doesn't even register in his mind, Fred far too flabbergasted by the sight of tears on Cam's face.
It's about as alien as a Risen parading around in high heels and a polka-dot dress, and he finds that he really doesn't like it in the slightest. ]

Cam...

[ His voice trails off, uncertain.

What should he do in a situation like this? What should he say? He's taken back to a darker time, to Chrom and Lissa watching Emmeryn fall and how he'd been unable to do anything even then. It's a memory more than two years old now but the pain lancing through his heart hurts just as fresh. He can't begin to imagine how Cam must be feeling.

For a moment he hesitates, considering the best course of action, before making his way carefully to where Cam stands and placing a hand carefully on the other man's shoulders. ]

There was nothing more you could have done.

[Crying, especially crying in front of others, is not a common occurrence for Cam. It’s less a sort of macho pride thing, and more a byproduct of living in the moment. Cam doesn’t dwell, does almost anything he can to do the opposite, in fact. He isn’t like Jiutou, who carried the weight of her parents’ murders on her shoulders like a cloak, who travelled across a country just for a chance at revenge. When Mirela died, he ran. Left Greybell and Keran Blackhearth and the rest of the Bucklands to become a distant memory. Avoided it and ignored it until moments like now, where it is ripped from a wound he’d left untreated.

A hand falls on his shoulder and he shudders, keeping his face ducked, his long hair hiding him from Frederick’s eyes. Around them, the memory moves on. Keran returns, flanked by members of the court who hide their gasps behind gloved hands. Shaking hands point an accusing finger at Cam, who stumbles to his feet. He makes a feeble attempt at defense, but he is clearly in shock, and few are likely to believe the traveling entertainer over the lord of the keep. Cam's memory is eventually forced to flee, to avoid capture.

It seems like a long time passes before Cam finally raises his head, taking a deep breath that ends in a sudden, sharp, humorless laugh,] I really thought I did it. For awhile anyway.

[ His actual memory of the event was so muddled and confused. In a twisted way, it was a relief, to see it all played out so clearly in front of him. ]

[ He lets Cam cry, turning his attention away from the real man beside him and back to the memory, gaze humorless as he watches the remainder of the scene unfold. It goes about as well as he expects it to - which is to say, not well at all, and Fred's filled with a deep sense of sympathy for Cam as the memory draws to a close, fizzles out as the real world returns back to them.

Not that any of it seems real, the expression on real-Cam's face still too haggard to seem fully in-character. It's startling, too, to hear Cam admit his own doubt of his participation, and Frederick has to resist the urge to give the man a good shake.

Sternly: ]

Anyone who truly knows you would have corrected you straightaway. You have your flaws, as do we all, but the one thing you would not do, Cam Buckland, is betray someone near and dear to your heart.

[ He's still not sure of the relation of the woman in the memory - though he could certainly hazard a guess - but one thing had been very very clear from the start: that Cam had loved this woman very much. ]

[It's a blessing that the memory fades away because Cam's sure he doesn't want to see what happens next. Before the storm came, not that long ago, yet somehow feels like a lifetime ago, he'd finally been on his way back to Greybell. Less to confront his demons and more to confront the new ones that arose from the demons he left planted there. Monsters like Keran Blackhearth don't just go away because you pretend they're not there.

At Frederick's reassurance, Cam presses his mouth together in a rough facsimile of a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes,]

Yeah. [It's nice to know that Frederick believes in him, at least. He sighs, scrubbing his face.]

Sorry you had to see that. [At least he's starting to get pulled together, now that the vision has ebbed.]

[ It's almost a relief to see Cam try and pull himself together into his usual self, though it's also clear that little about the smile he slaps on his face is genuine. How can it be, when such a terrible tragedy's been ripped from his heart and laid bare for all to see?

Frederick shakes his head, gently rebuffing Cam's apology. ]

I'm only sorry that such a memory was pulled from you without permission.

[ Certainly the sight itself hadn't been worse than deaths he'd seen before, even if the emotional impact had been greater. He wonders where the woman's body is now, if she'd been given a proper funeral or simply cast aside after Cam had fled. So many questions, left unanswered as the memory fades. Most of them Frederick's content to let rest, save for one. ]

Did you ever face the man who committed the atrocity?

[The answers to all of those questions are pretty dire. Keran was a bastard before, but he really lost it afterwards. Calling what he had for Mirela love would be a severe disservice to the word, but he certainly had strong, unhealthy feelings for the woman. That, mixed with a fantasy world where necromancy was possible...

Cam shifts where he stands,] Funny story, that, [It's a good way to lead into a No,] The storm had some bad timing.

[Avoided it as long as he could. Got wrapped up in adventure, and it was so easy to justify putting off conquering his own demons when the country was under threat by the Broken Sky. Then, when he finally had the courage, and strength to return to Greybell, all of this happened. For all he knows, Keran Blackhearth could be sleeping soundly in the Stasis hall.]

[ Ah. That answer, loose as it is, does explain things quite well. Unfortunate, that the Storm would so rudely interrupt before Cam could have the chance to face down the man that had done him so wrong. (Or so Fred thinks.) ]

I see. It seems the Storm has taken away opportunities from many here.

[ Whether or not that proves to be beneficial or not he can't yet say. For now, he takes a step back and returns briefly to the scene they'd just witnessed. ]

I'm sorry though. For what happened. She must have been a wonderful woman.

[Cam sighs]

Yeah, me too.

[He shoves his hands deep in his pockets. He's getting emotionally tapped out. When the storm stole him away, it was a curse and a blessing. An excuse to keep putting off dealing with his past, and even now, he's confronted it but things weren't entirely dealt with. Just torn out into the open for him to stitch up again, just with a handful more witnesses than before.

After a moment, he blurts out,]

I'd appreciate it if you don't... tell anyone.

[Not that he thinks Fred is so insensitive but... Even among his closest friends, Elora, Jiutou, Trellimar, and Reynard, they barely knew as much as Frederick knows now.]

[ Of all the requests he's heard from Cam over the months, both silly and serious, that's the one that surprises him the most. Not because it's an unreasonable request, far from it, but simply due to the way Cam nearly trips over himself to ask, with an urgency that had always been lacking at other times. ]

Of course. [ Frederick replies immediately, solemn. ] I give you my word that this will remain between us.

[ Though, now that it's been brought up, he feels compelled to ask. ]

Do not many people know the truth of what happened?

[That's a relief, Cam lets out a breath. Needless to say, his feelings regarding the matter are complicated. It's less about other people knowing and more about the less other people can ask about it, the less Cam has to think about it himself.

He shifts his weight,] It was his word against mine and I'm...

[He raises his arms to his side. Sort of a “look at me” gesture. There's a far cry in status between the silly, bandanna'd man, with pretty beads and feathers tied into his hair, and the man from the memory, in his finely tailored clothes, surrounded by all of his finery. The obscenely rich heir to a powerful merchant family had a lot more sway than a member of the poor family of misfit entertainers he kept around.

He lowers his hands] Or, I guess it was just his word.

[Cam didn't stick around to give his.]

And outside of Greybell... word doesn't really get around about what happens to an entertainer.

[ A fair enough point. It's been too long since he's been a no one in Ylisse, and while Lady Emmeryn might have thoughtfully considered the stories of every single one of the townspeople with equal weight, Frederick is not nearly as much of a saint as she is.

Most people, in fact, are nowhere near her caliber, but surely there must have been a few who would have sided with Cam? Or at the very least heard out the both of them equally. Frederick frowns, realizing he has no idea what sort of place Cam's home was like. ]

Were you forced to leave everything behind then?

[Probably. The Bucklands were a close-knit group. A family, or the closest thing to one Cam knew. Surely Eldie would trust Cam over Keran, but Cam could barely stand to face the rest of them after it happened, not to mention that it took several months for him to discover his own innocence.

Cam shrugs, noncommittal,] I left the rest of the Bucklands, yeah. I didn't really have a home or anything, though. Just went from one traveling band of misfits to another.

[And there's a note of fondness in his voice at the last bit.] And hey, if I wouldn't have left, I wouldn't have become a big hero of Talis'val.

[Cue minimizing his own trauma.]

[ The memory fades; they're on the road again, near Olympia's city center. It's become something of a chaotic mess ever since the memories started appearing with no rhyme or reason, but the good thing about it is that no one pays them any mind.

Frederick, meanwhile, pays Cam a lot of mind, entirely unconvinced of the carefree air Cam tries to put on in the face of hardship. It must have been difficult for him to leave his loved ones, but now doesn't seem like quite the right time to pry.

Later, he'll ask about the downs of Cam's life. For now, they can stick to the ups, the parts that aren't as hard to swallow. ]

Is that so? Perhaps you could tell me how you came to be this hero of Talis'val, while we make our way back.

[ Punctuated with juuust enough doubt to try and encourage Cam into proving him wrong. ]

Edited (sighs over my typos) 2018-04-30 23:40 (UTC)

Forgetting is such sweet sorrow | semi-closed logs

The Feast of Stone (Closed to Valjean)

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This tag took me 500 years to write and I still don't think it sounds right :'|

how dare you jessa

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Cam's Lament (Closed to past CR)

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No this is too tender >:V

c:

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crawls in 2 weeks late with sbux

welcome to the Cam Buckland Angst Power Hour

can i get a refund, this is too depressing

I don't have enough sad Cam icons for this

you know that what means: time to draw more!!

noooo I already don't like the ones I drew already

no they're beautiful!!

;_; also, god, I apped Cam right before this whole situation got resolved in canon

time to canon update in the future!

Maybe :'|

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