applesaucedream | A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

"Don't worry," the Balladeer replies in a less frantic but still rather tense undertone. "I've got this."

Regardless of whether or not he has it, the guards certainly do not seem to have their prisoner. He is, in fact, fairly bounding towards the both of them right now. "Ah! I see why you were distracted!" The man gives Greta a somewhat oily smile. "And who is this lovely creature?"

The Balladeer just folds his arms over his chest. "Oh, go away. Don't you have somewhere to be?" He nods back towards the scaffold, and the guards who seem rather curiously frozen where they are. The crowd seems equally uninterested in the proceedings, despite the apparently notorious criminal prancing freely around the prison yard.

In Greta's experience, men who say they have a situation under control are often fooling themselves, so she takes the Balladeer's reassurance with a large grain of salt. Honestly, no one seems to have the situation under control. The guards who were meant to be holding the prisoner simply look on as said prisoner capers about like he owns the place. No one in the crowd seems to notice that he's slipped his lead, either. It's as if everyone's under some sort of enchantment, save the three of them.

She still has no idea how dangerous this man is, so when he pronounces her a 'lovely creature' (creature, honestly, as if she's a horse or something), her objection is limited to an offended scoff. The Balladeer doesn't seem intimidated, though, which emboldens her enough to add, "I'm sure we do." Have a better place to be, that is. Anywhere but here, really.

Honestly? The Balladeer has not entirely managed to fool even himself into thinking he has this under control. This assassin is not the sort of man who can entirely be controlled by anybody. Especially not himself, he very recently came to realize. "We do," he agrees with Greta, for lack of anything else to do, and draws a little closer to her. Maybe the two of them can just sort of sidle out the front gates without anyone noticing. The scene can try going on without him. There admittedly isn't much of a scene to have without him, but right now he's not sure he cares.

"Nonsense!" the prisoner scoffs. "What could possibly be more important that this? And it is the height of rudeness not to make introductions - I am Charles Guiteau, miss. Author, preacher..." The newly identified Guiteau reaches out to grab Greta's hand. He'll kiss it if she lets him. "...diplomat."

The Balladeer sputters in indignation. "You are not! You have never been a diplomat! Get - " He steps forward, trying to wave Guiteau away from both Greta and himself. "Just go!"

Greta stiffens when Guiteau takes her hand, still uncertain as to how dangerous he is, and more than a little taken aback by the sudden onslaught of courtly manners. After he kisses her, though, she jerks her hand back with alacrity and takes a healthy step backwards for good measure. She's not quite hiding behind the Balladeer - the instrument slung across his back would make it an awkward prospect, anyway, even if pride wasn't an issue - but she is trying to make herself the less reachable one out of the two of them.

"I am married," she says sternly, tucking the hand he kissed behind her back and using the other to readjust her scarf. Her husband's scarf, thank you very much. "And the Balladeer and I are leaving." Maybe if she says it with enough conviction, it will actually happen.

There was once a time when the Balladeer would have simply told Greta to leave on her own, because he would have been confident that whatever else he'd done, Guiteau wouldn't dare to harm him.

That time is over. He holds his ground, drawing himself up to his full height as Guiteau turns to him with a smile. "Oh, he can't leave now, my dear. He's going to play me my last song - aren't you? I wrote it and everything, you know, but they wouldn't let me have a full orchestra." He states this as if it's a terrible injustice. The song would have been transcendent, if played properly!

"No." The Balladeer feels a stab of guilt. Whatever his personal feelings, it is his job to pass on their stories - didn't he do the same for Booth, of all people? But he's not even really sure anybody is watching: only Greta, who really shouldn't be here in the first place. Maybe it's okay, just this once. "No," he repeats more firmly, "We're going now. Come on." This last is added in an undertone towards Greta, as he turns towards the gate, keeping himself at least a little between the two of them.

"You can't do that!" Guiteau follows, his tone somewhere between beseeching and indignant. "You're the Balladeer!"

"You tried to kill me!" the Balladeer snaps, whirling on him. "If you want people to sing your songs, don't murder them!" Despite being taller than Guiteau, he seems very much the less threatening of the two, particularly as their conversation gets more heated. It's probably because Guiteau has crazy eyes.

This is only getting more confusing with every passing moment. It's less like a puzzle missing a few critical pieces and more like she's just been handed each corner piece and is trying to figure the whole picture out from there. Or like she's in the wrong story, again. Why does this keep happening to her?

Well, here are the pieces she has: this Guiteau fellow wants the Balladeer to play him a song - expects it, in fact. Perhaps that's part of his job in this world. Or perhaps Guiteau is completely mad; it's difficult to say. Regardless, the Balladeer doesn't want to perform, because Guiteau tried to kill him. And now they're glaring at one another, and for all she knows, Guiteau might be willing to give it another go.

If he does, no one will help them. They don't even have a weapon, unless the Balladeer plans on using his instrument as a bludgeon... and they'd probably both rather it didn't come to that.

All things considered, she'd prefer a song, even a horrible one, over another attempted murder.

"All right!" Greta interjects, moving to stand alongside them with her hands raised, as if prepared to physically force them apart if she has to. She really hopes it doesn't come to that. "Let's all just calm down."

Keeping a wary eye on Guiteau, she addresses the Balladeer in an undertone. "Are you really supposed to--to sing his song? Is it part of your job?"

The Balladeer rocks back on his heels, keeping a wary eye on Guiteau himself. "...yes," he acknowledges begrudgingly, glancing away with a faint trace of guilt. "It's my job. Which I was trying to do before..." He trails off with an accusatory glare at Guiteau, who seems unmoved.

"You were being rude," he replies primly. "He called us failures."

"Have you seen yourself? Was this what you wanted?" The Balladeer waves a hand at the scaffold. "And none of the rest of you are any better - they kill people." This is an explanatory aside to Greta, who is apparently now the mediator for some kind of giant insane conflict between a group of murderers and a man with a banjo. Sorry, Greta.

~~TEAM BANJOMAN!~~

"I see," Greta says slowly, more to buy some time than because she actually understands. Still, can this really be more difficult than negotiating with a Witch? Or the Prince's Steward? Or a fussy newborn, for that matter? At least Guiteau can be reasoned with. Probably.

"Well," she continues briskly, "Mister Guiteau, I don't see how you can expect the Balladeer to do his job if you're trying to murder him. We'll have to have no more of that." She wags a stern finger at him. This is the most ridiculous conversation she has ever been part of.

Turning to the Balladeer, she continues with a bit more delicacy. "And I suppose we can't expect Mister Guiteau to, er... cooperate... unless you play his song for him?"

The Balladeer, when addressed, is obviously in the middle of trying to suppress laughter. She just wagged her finger at Guiteau. The man's not the most intimidating of the lot, of course, but he half wants to take her to meet the others just to see them get scolded.

He funnels the rest of his mirth into pretending to clear his throat. "Well. I don't have any engagements after this - " Barring the one, but he won't be convinced to do THAT again anytime soon, " - so I guess I could just get it over with and we could get out of here?" He still doesn't really want to perform the song. Sure, it's his job, but he's still feeling a little spiteful over being shoved into the inky blackness of possible-death. Finishing the scene is definitely the easiest way to leave, though.

"I certainly won't be in any position to stop you THEN!" Guiteau replies cheerily, stepping aside to wave him grandly towards the scaffold. "Shall we? I'll speak to you, later~" He winks at Greta before heading back towards his guard, a definite bounce in his step.

"Yeah. He won't," the Balladeer says, watching him go. "I'll be done in a few minutes, just..." He glances around the prison yard warily. It's still weird that she just randomly appeared here. "If someone tries to talk to you, don't." Then, with a few glances backwards, he follows Guiteau over to the scaffold.

Thus begins the most passive-aggressive rendition of the Ballad of Guiteau ever.

She is trying to avert your murder, here; show some respect. More to the point, it's working. They're going to enact this odd ritual Guiteau expects, and then… then Guiteau will be… oh, dear. Her shoulders slump a little as they both head toward the scaffold. She did not entirely think this through. And now there's nothing for her to do but watch.

And listen.

Guiteau sings, first, and she grimaces a little as the melody wanders between 'hymnal' and 'cloying.' It's a relief when the Balladeer comes in. He has a nice voice, actually. It takes her a few moments to appreciate as much. She's distracted by the sudden animation of the crowd, as if they were all waiting for this moment, or as if the music lifted whatever spell they were under. Then she's distracted again by a sudden swell of more instruments from somewhere, though she can't spot any other musicians in the crowd for the life of her.

At least no one tries to talk to her. A few people elbow past her to get a better view; she folds her arms, hunches her shoulders, and lets them. She doesn't really want to see what's coming.

God damn him, but he actually does kinda enjoy his job.

That's something he hadn't considered. He really likes singing and educating people, even if his subjects tend to be truly awful human beings. The Balladeer's still upset, but the song does become less grudging as he goes on. Even though the people around the yard came back to life with the music, they still don't seem to actually notice him; they simply move aside as he passes, without giving him so much as a glance.

He goes to stand at the base of the stairs as Guiteau ascends...and then descends, looking for the first time afraid. The Balladeer gives him a long, level look as the music stops dead. There is a pause.

Whatever passes between them, Guiteau seems bolstered enough that he carries on with his own execution. The Balladeer sings him along, no longer really sure if he's actually trying to be encouraging or not.

He doesn't look away when the trapdoor falls.

This is more of a production than Greta was expecting. It's as if the eulogy is being given before the funeral. She can almost, begrudgingly, understand the appeal, and why Guiteau would have been so furious to lose it. But it's also undeniably morbid. She finds herself watching it the way people watch the aftermath of a bad carriage accident.

But the most unnerving part of the whole proceeding is that she might be the only one not having a wonderful time. Well, the Balladeer doesn't seem particularly happy, either, but he does seem to be thawing as the song goes on. This is his job.

When the music stops, Greta holds her breath. What's happened? Has something gone wrong? She stands transfixed, uncertain if she should move or speak and ultimately unable to do either. Then the song resumes, and Guiteau ascends the scaffold steps for the last time. Greta drops her gaze, then, keeping it firmly fixed on the ground as the trapdoor springs open, the song wraps itself up, and the crowd slowly begins to disperse.

The Balladeer lingers around the bottom of the scaffold for a moment, half-expecting something to happen. What would he do if he just suddenly turned around and found himself surrounded by all of them, all over again? Or maybe it would start from the beginning, with crackling flames and the stench of smoke. But life goes on. The crowd is dispersing, while two men loosen the rope to let Guiteau's body thump down into the dust. The Balladeer winces and turns to head back to Greta's side, letting the banjo rest at his side again.

"That's that, then." He gives her a forced smile. He knows the whole ordeal changes little for him; he'll see Guiteau again after this, probably sooner than he wants to. That doesn't mean that he enjoys watching a man die. "Let's get out of here. I'll show you around the city?"

He's never lingered to see what happens with the body before, but they're not treating it too gently back there. He's willing to bet there'll be fire in the near future. They should really both be gone before that.

Greta lifts her gaze once his shoes come into her line of sight; he's close enough that his body blocks most of the view of what's going on back beneath the gallows. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, which is reassuring - she wouldn't have known how to respond if he'd actually been having a grand old time up there - but also a bit wrenching. She doesn't always enjoy her job, but baking doesn't exactly take a toll on her, either.

"Yes." She attempts a smile that is about as convincing as his was, then impulsively reaches out to take his arm. As gestures go, it skirts the line between formal and companionable, but what she's going for is supportive. His job wasn't pleasant, but he did what he had to do, and now it's over. And she doesn't think any less of him. "That would be nice."

The sudden contact startles him a bit at first - maybe he's still unconsciously waiting for Booth to pop up and shove a gun in his face. But his smile softens into something more genuine, if still not quite happy. "Alright. This way."

He leads the way out of the prison gates, past a few lingering onlookers, and into the city streets. This might look a little more like what Greta's used to. Instead of cars, horses and carriages traverse the streets, and there's not even a single electric light to be seen. It's also a bit more somber than modern New York. Windows and storefronts are draped in black cloth, and many men are wearing black hatbands. They, too, ignore the Balladeer's passing; he and Greta may as well be invisible. He's gone too far off-script now, and she's in the wrong story altogether.

It would be nice if he could walk around a city not recently stricken with loss. That's part of why he likes Manhattan so much. But he tries to put it out of his mind, looking around for something more diverting to do. "Oh! Hey, look at that!" He points to where a tall marble tower, surrounded by scaffolding, rises over the otherwise modest skyline. "That's the Washington Monument. Not even finished building it yet - but I'm pretty sure it'll be the tallest structure in the world for a while once they do."

This is more like home, and Greta finds herself breathing a bit easier as they leave the prison yard behind. Granted, all the black is off-putting - what happened? - but she doesn't ask for an explanation. She can guess that the city is in mourning; any description of what they're mourning would be a longer, grimmer lecture than she wants to request. She'll just let the Balladeer steer the conversation.

She's not surprised when he steers it into the mild waters of local architecture. It's an improvement over 'death.' His wording is a little strange, though, and after a few moments of token monument appreciation, she glances up at him. "'For a while'?" she repeats. He almost sounds like Andrew, talking about the present as if it's history to him. But isn't he from here? That's what she'd assumed, since he seemed to know the locals, and took a strange but important role in that execution.

Outside of music, the Balladeer knows about two things: death, and American history. This is the friendlier portion.

"Give it a few decades," he replies with a shrug, "It'll probably lose the title before the turn of the century, even." It doesn't occur to him that his phrasing is odd at all. Traveling about is just natural; it's staying here so long that's strange in a way. He knows Washington like the back of his hand, he's spent so much time here...but none of that time was spent actually exploring the city. Strange.

The National Mall is always a good place to be a tourist, at least. It seems like it should have taken them longer to walk here than it did, but they're much nearer the Washington Monument now. Even unfinished, it's an imposing obelisk, all smooth white marble. "The construction ruins the effect a little," the Balladeer admits, considering the tall wooden scaffolds. "In a couple years they're going to - "

He turns to point up the Mall, and stops dead. Is that the Lincoln Memorial down there? That doesn't seem right.

A few decades? The Balladeer doesn't look much older than a few decades, himself. Greta's brow furrows in deepening confusion as he continues, unable to reconcile how he could be from this general time period and so familiar with what was to come. But before she can ask him just how he knows all this, he cuts himself off abruptly and stares at some other impressive-looking structure some ways off.

"… Is everything all right?" she asks. It obviously isn't, but maybe the little verbal nudge will encourage him to explain himself.

"Uh...yeah," the Balladeer replies, still staring dubiously at the building. How is that even here? It's definitely 1882, or he wouldn't have just done that whole thing with Guiteau. "I'm very sure that building shouldn't have been built for another forty years..."

"I shouldn't have been built at all," opines a nearby man with a thick Southern accent.

"No, nope. Not today." The Balladeer does not turn around; he just starts walking off very quickly, dragging Greta along with him. "He died years ago, we don't have to deal with him right now."

"Wh--" Greta starts, but any of the several questions she might have asked him is abruptly cut off as he tugs her forward. She glances back over her shoulder at the man who interrupted them, catching an impression of curly hair and a wispy mustache. Then she looks back up at the Balladeer in astonishment. "He's dead? But how…?" What sort of life has the Balladeer been leading? It's one thing to know history, it's quite another for history to know him, too. "Who is he?"

"No one."

There's a pause, and then the Balladeer sighs. Erasing history really isn't to his tastes. "That's John Wilkes Booth. He's a murderer - he killed him." He lifts an arm to point towards the Memorial; while it's still pretty far away, there's clearly a statuesque figure inside. Obviously this is more than just a common criminal if his victim got a giant marble temple built in his honor. "And trust me, you don't want to hear about it from him. He's horrible and he won't stop talking about himself. Someone shot him a good twenty years ago, he really has no business being here."

Unless, of course, Booth's business is with him. He really hopes that kind of thing doesn't grant all the rest of them the ability to move through time and space the way he does. God, they might just go out and start inciting assassinations.

Greta stares up at the Balladeer, trying to reconcile his familiarity with all these murderers whose crimes, it seems, span decades, with the fact that he doesn't seem that old and certainly doesn't seem like the sort of person who would associate with murderers on purpose.

"But how do you know them all?" she asks, which might not be the most pressing concern considering that one of them is probably following them. But this Booth fellow, from the sounds of it, isn't much more than a shade, anyway. "How do they--how old are you?" she finally blurts, baffled.

The thoughtful pause that follows Greta's question is probably not comforting.

"I didn't actually wait through all that time," the Balladeer explains, instead of giving an actual answer. He's certainly not centuries old, like his span of history would imply. Exact numbers escape him, but he's younger that that. "I just skip ahead to where I'm needed. It's just my job. To keep their stories alive."

He waves a hand vaguely over his shoulder. Is Booth still following them? Maybe if he doesn't look or pay him any attention, he'll just leave. Because that's what John Wilkes Booth does: he gives up and leaves quietly when he isn't wanted. "They're not good stories, but those who don't remember history are doomed to repeat it." There have been too many repetitions for his liking. ~~Honestly it took three assassinations for the Secret Service to be formed, what are people doing with their time~~

"But…" Greta trails off, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand for a moment. This isn't the easiest thing in the world for her to get her head around. "So you… you travel through time," she begins, the well-worn phrase carrying none of its usual, implicit familiarity when she says it. It's a wholly foreign concept to her. "So you can tell people stories about… about murderers. That… that… is your job."

She still has no idea how that's possible, let alone an occupation. "I don't suppose we could sit for a minute," she asks, sounding just a bit strained. To be fair, it's hot out and they've been hustling along for a few minutes in an attempt to evade one of his--his subjects, she supposes. Is he even still following them? She's slightly concerned that if she turns to look, she'll fall right over.

The Balladeer sighs. "I know." There's a reason he didn't lead with that when he met her. He isn't ashamed of what he does by any means; he thinks it's important. Normal, though? That's something entirely different.

"Let's just get up these stairs." He's slightly worried about looking as well. Booth isn't someone he wants to deal with in general, but he certainly doesn't want the man realizing that he's got a friend now. Guiteau is one thing, but Booth is a devious bastard. They're at the foot of the memorial now, and he starts up the many (many) steps, though he's clearly tiring too. "I don't think he'll follow us in."

That's based on no real logic. It isn't as though this is a church, and Booth a vampire. It just doesn't seem like a place he'd want to hang out.

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