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

Current Music: Evening of August 12th/Morning of August 13th

Entry tags:

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

Greta dreams of falling (again, and again).

The path ends abruptly. Maybe there never was a path, only a deceptive stretch of ground, free of any undergrowth, that looked like it could be one. Either way, she's left standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, looking down at the leaf-strewn forest floor far below her. A small rock tumbles down, as if for the sole purpose of illustrating the length of the drop. It seems to take ages to reach the bottom, clattering off exposed roots and finally thudding to the ground.

There's a roaring in her ears like a great wind, but it isn't the wind. The earth shudders beneath her feet. She reaches out wildly for something on which to steady herself, knowing even as she does so that she'll miss; she always misses, it's so stupid. Maybe she deserves whatever comes next.

But she doesn't miss. Her hand closes around something - not a branch. An arm? Whatever it is, she isn't letting go.

[ooc: whoops, Greta's dropped into your dream. Or you've dropped into hers. Whether you want them both to be in her giant-plagued forest or in a setting more familiar to your character is up to you. Poor Greta's just gonna have to roll with it either way.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Granted, Greta's life has hardly been 'normal' by modern-day Manhattan standards, either. But at least it's been linear. How does he travel through time? What does he do when he's not working? He does do something besides his job, right? And he must be from a certain time period, regardless of how much he travels.

His sigh makes her feel a bit guilty for prying, though, so she swallows her multitude of questions and focuses on the staircase, instead.

There is nothing 'just' about that staircase.

"Right," she says as they start up the steps toward the massive monument. Then, she falls silent, most of her energy going into putting one foot in front of the other. It isn't until they're crossing the broad landing halfway up the slope that she quietly asks, "What if he does follow us in? How dangerous is he?" That would be good to know before she finds herself needing to break up another fight.

The Balladeer grimaces a little. "I don't know if he'd hurt you. Doubt he'd bother if you weren't with me." As much as he hates Booth, he doesn't have any illusions about the man being a genuine mass murderer or anything. He's very specific in his targets; he takes pride in that. You don't listen to him rant about Shakespeare and Rome for hours without picking up that much.

But the Balladeer has certainly made that list, and he doesn't trust that Booth would quibble about a little collateral damage. If he'd seen him before Booth spotted he and Greta together...well, too late now. "He's dangerous, more dangerous than Guiteau. He thought history would vindicate him, it didn't - " See: the giant memorial they're scaling. " - and he's one to shoot the messenger."

After a moment, honesty compels him to add, "I also burned some of his writings." Back when he'd been sure they needed him too much to hurt him, it'd seemed like a good idea.

...ah, hell, he'd do the same thing now if he had the choice.

Greta's beginning to really miss the Woods. At least in the Woods, dead people don't come back to life just to murder the living out of revenge. How has the Balladeer survived any of this?

"So, he probably wants to kill you," she summarizes, "and he might kill me just for being with you. And he's already dead, himself, but he's also alive enough to murder people." Despite the apparently real danger they're in, she finds herself biting back a mirthless smile. "Your world," she informs him, "is completely mad."

Well, hopefully this Booth fellow will just leave them alone. If not… she's not sure what they'll do, but she's not letting anyone murder her friend. (How she'd stop it is another matter entirely, but she will cross that bridge if she comes to it.)

As they finally top the stairs and pass between the towering white columns that support the structure, she gives the Balladeer's arm a bracing little pat. "We'll be fine," she says firmly.

"He's alive enough to murder me," the Balladeer clarifies. "Don't think he could manage normal people." He steps in and out of time with the rest of them; he's basically on their level, enough so to get attacked. Greta...well, she's out of any timeline she might have belonged in right now. Best not to take the risk.

"But yes. It is." He doesn't bother to bite back his humorless grin. He smiles for real at the pat, though. "Of course we will."

He'll try to see to it that she's fine, anyway. She really shouldn't have gotten caught up in all of this. The Balladeer moves in past the columns to one of the side walls, where presumably no one will be able to shoot them without at least making themselves visible first. He needs to catch his breath anyway; that is an extreme set of stairs. "But please don't do what you did with Guiteau. Booth'll be armed. He always carries a gun, and I think he's got a knife too."

Despite what she's just learned, Greta feels a knee-jerk, instinctive urge to defend the Balladeer's normalcy (or perhaps to question what 'normal' even means anymore). She bites it back. All she can do is take him at his word as far as Booth is concerned. Apparently he's armed with a knife (and a 'gun,' whatever that is).

"No scolding him, then," she says. She might sound faintly disappointed. It worked so well last time. She releases the Balladeer's arm, leans back against the wall, and tugs off the scarf, using it to mop her forehead. At least it's cooler in here.

She nods up at the statue, idly twisting and untwisting the scarf around her hands. "Who was he?"

The Balladeer leans back against one of the tall columns, following her gaze. "That's Abraham Lincoln. He was president, a long time back." He assumes it's been a while, anyway, given that the memorial's even here in the first place now. Who knows what year it is?

"There was a civil war at the time, and he kept the country together. Also helped outlaw the practice of slavery." This is, of course, an extremely simplified explanation of that entire chapter of American history, but Greta doesn't want a long lecture. Also, the most relevant part is that - "Booth's side lost, and he got pretty upset about the freedom thing, so he shot him." - John Wilkes Booth is a terrible human being.

"Oh," Greta says in the tone of someone who has just discovered something unpleasant and desiccated curled up in the bottom of the pantry. She can understand why such a grand monument was built for this Lincoln fellow - it sounds like he was a good ruler - but more to the point, she can appreciate the Balladeer's complete distaste for Mister Booth. "Well, that Booth fellow sounds loathsome." No wonder he was so quick to haul her off.

... And speak of the devil. It looks as if they've been followed after all. Greta groans under her breath, shifts a bit closer to the Balladeer, and nods toward the not-so-new arrival.

Ohhhhh, god.

He sees, alright, and the Balladeer promptly straightens and moves to stand between the two. "What do you want?" He isn't afraid, and he won't be intimidated. He's just annoyed.

Booth turns from leering up at the statue in distaste to face him, flashing the pair a charming smile. He is far better than Guiteau at playing the gentleman; the Balladeer's glad he already told Greta all about the fellow. "No need to look like that," he drawls, stepping closer. "I was just hopin' to finish our previous conversation. Now, are you hidin' a new member of our little society from us?"

He nods over the Balladeer's shoulder towards Greta. The Balladeer bristles visibly. Oh, come on, she doesn't look like she'd haul off and try to kill someone in the least!

Fortunately for the both of them, Greta's recently learned to be wary of 'charming.' Mister Booth is quite handsome - she's not blind - but she believes the Balladeer's assessment of him, and she's not about to be taken in by pretty manners.

She's also not about to let that comment go unanswered. "I am not part of your society," she says crossly, planting her hands on her hips. Say what you will about the things she's done with one of her universe's ruling parties, but she definitely hasn't murdered any of them in cold blood.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject