balletrat: (trappedmeg)
*Sometime in the middle of the night, there comes a knock at Lilly's door.*
balletrat: (demuremeg)
*Meg is watching Derry sleep.

It's a more entertaining activity than one might expect; she blows these little spit-bubbles, and makes tiny squeaky baby snores. Also, you have to factor in the sheer novelty of it - to say Derry's an active child might be an understatement.

She's been fretful today, though; yesterday, too.

Meg has a sneaking suspicion she knows the cause. She can relate.*
balletrat: (babyandmeg)
*Late Tuesday night, there comes a tap on Andrew's door.

- well, a kick, to be exact. Meg's hands are a little bit occupied.*

Andrew? Are you there - ow ow let go of that -
balletrat: (yeahrightmeg - shati)
*Meg opens the door for Andrew as they get to the top of the stairs, ushering him in dramatically with her free arm.*

Come, hurry - there are spies all around, *she intones.* Walls have ears. Ceilings have eyes, and floors probably have noses.
balletrat: (shockedmeg - Shati)
*A day or so ago - time's funny in the Threshold - Meg started a dance, in Milliways.

Now, alone in the Threshold, she's busy perfecting it.

It's of course at precisely the moment when she has one leg in the air and is balanced on the other toe that a shrill sound comes from the other side of the room - Meg's cell phone.

It takes a few moments for her to realize what it is, as she wobbles in shock; when she does, however, it's a matter of seconds to dive into a somewhat more normal position and sprint across the room to pick it up.*

Bonjour? *she demands.*
balletrat: (almostnormalsmilemeg)
*The date: January 1st.

The time: Late enough that hangovers have almost completely vanished.

The place: Lilly's suite, where Meg is sprawled comfortably across Lilly's couch, taking up rather more space than it seems such a small person should.*

I really am sorry I missed New Year's with you guys, *she's saying, sheepishly.*
balletrat: (nervousmeg - Shati)
*Meg doesn't know how long it takes her until she reaches the imposing edifice of the palace; it feels like an eternity, of course, but that's only to be expected. It can't have been as long as it felt like, because she is still, to a certain extent, visible - and so she tells herself for the fiftieth or a hundredth time not to worry, they will get there in time, as she runs straight through a side wall and turns to the first, extremely startled person she sees passing by.*

I need to talk to Max or Michael - whoever's closer - quickly -
balletrat: (snowmeg - by Danii)
*Meg looks at the sad little heap of snow piled next to the lake, and pulls a face.*

- it's just the wrong kind of snow, I think.
balletrat: (lookingdownmeg)
*Meg watches her hand carefully as it fuzzes into insubstantiality, and back to solidity.*

Not too much longer, I think -
balletrat: (closedeyesmeg)
*Meg runs, soaked ballet slippers leaving a clear track through the snow.

She doesn't know where she's going, exactly; or at least, not until she sees the greenhouse, and veers around it to reach the far side, the one hidden from the bar. It seems fitting, she thinks, as much as she's thinking at all, and lets herself drop, curled up against the glass wall, snow melting underneath her tutu, arms wrapped around her legs and face buried in her knees as the leakage from her nose increases, and the tears start to fall.*
balletrat: (littlelostgirlmeg)
There are some things you just know.

Meg doesn't dream about her death, a display of pyrotechnics, bullets exploding into glass; what's the need? She's dealt with the greenhouse. The only ghost that lurks there is herself, and Meg's never been afraid to look in the mirror.

In her dream, Meg sees a small version of herself skip by - not that Meg skips much nowadays, but she used to, when she was small. It drove her mother mad. That, of course, was why she did it.

Herself, chasing butterflies, the rare few butterflies that flutter among the tenements of Paris, and something about this seems oddly familiar - but of course she did chase butterflies when she was small, whenever she saw one. She never caught one, of course. Any butterfly that managed to survived in the streets of Paris had to be far cannier than one small girl who hadn't yet learned the secrets of staying alive in the dark, twisting streets (secrets, it seems, she never would learn - but then, it wasn't Paris that killed her, was it?)

One secret she won't let herself learn - she misses her mother.

Maman, tu me manques.

Paris, tu me manques.

Opera, tu me manques.

Whatever happens, Milliways will be there. Milliways is always there. Everything's real in Milliways.

Meg dreams sometimes that she is unBound; that the bar reads the thoughts she won't even let herself see and decides to take pity on her. She dreams that she goes back to the Ile de la Cite, climbs Notre-Dame and looks out over her city, her city, with its towers and cathedrals and dark corners and back alleys, its soaring beauty and hidden ugliness. She dreams that she cries, her tears falling on the cobblestoned pavement far below as the touristes look up with wondering eyes. She dreams that she laughs.

She dreams Paris back and wakes, in terrified hope, and doesn’t know if it’s true or not. And runs along the corridors barefoot, and down the stairs, and through the bar, shivering as the chill winter wind hits her, to the door, and puts her palm on the handle, and pulls.

She walks back through the bar, and climbs back up the stairs slowly, and crawls back into the bed, next to Andrew, and shivers still.

There are some things you just know; and there are some things you never really will.
balletrat: (sleepingmeg)
*Meg is small and slender. Her body doesn't retain heat very well, and the nights are growing colder - and of course the temperature in the Threshold is always perfectly balanced.

These days, she's not used to waking up and being warm.

This is the first thing she notices, as she drifts up out of sleep; and then, a second later, she realizes where she is, and keeps her eyes firmly closed, and her body still, and waits.*
balletrat: (snootymeg)
[OOC: After this.]

*The Arc de Triomphe is always crowded with tourists, come to gawk at the great symbol of Napoleon's triumph.

No one notices one more person in the crowd; they're too busy safeguarding their coins, their children, their husbands. That was why Meg had picked this spot for Svava, weeks and weeks ago.

Well, that and it's one of the most scenic spots in Paris.*
balletrat: (closedeyesmeg)
*Meg has been sitting with Archie by Svava's still body, in the sterile space of the infirmary, for as long as she could stand it before rising and slipping out, her face tight and hard.

It's longer than she'd thought she could. But still not long enough.

Leaving the infirmary takes her back to the main bar. She doesn't want to be there, among all those people - tomorrow, perhaps, she'll be able to, not today - but she doesn't know where to go.

Her hand curls around the green heart pendant at her collarbone. But time runs strangely in her father's house, and she can't afford to be out of reach, not now. There are people who might need her - and anyways, the last thing she needs is to come back and find someone already gone, slipped away when she wasn't looking -

is there anyone to dance with?

- at least, that's the reason she tells herself, and it's a valid one. So, not the Threshold. Not yet.

She glances up the stairs; there's the room she's half-lived in for the past year, where Andrew is undoubtedly already asleep.

Already asleep; asleep and alive, and that decides her.

Meg turns, and heads out the back door.

The moon reflects off the glass of the greenhouse, but it's not frightening; not tonight, and never again. It's only a place, after all.

But it's a place that marks the border of something, and so it feels somehow appropriate. Anyway, there's nowhere else.

With a sort of fascination, Meg marks her own steps, in the glassy light of the moon. Here she'd entered, and here she'd stood, with the gun at her temple, and, though she doesn't remember it, here she must have fallen - and is that the indentation of her head, there?

Most likely it isn't - people have walked all over here, the traces of her own body are doubtless long gone - but Meg lies down, and puts her head in it anyways.

Her arms wrapped around her knees, lying in the dirt where she'd died, Meg falls - almost easily - asleep.*
balletrat: (meginshadow)
*It's not - it's one of the worst things ever, to feel so helpless.

Meg is dead.

It doesn't matter where she died; or so she tells herself. It's just a place. It doesn't mean anything.

And yet, when Meg's been outside, she's avoided looking at the building on the shore with its shattered glass; and though the semi-familiar stars above the lake are far more comfortable than the red sky of Desire's realm, she's stayed, on the whole, away from windows.

But no more. Not anymore.

It's just a greenhouse. Just a building. There's no reason to avoid a building, a building like any other; it's just glass and roses, same as it ever was.

We're able to stand.

Most of the people in the bar have long since gone to sleep when Meg rises from the table where she'd been sitting with Susan, and walks, with a steady gait, out the back door.

It's cold outside; she shivers, as the wind hits her arms, raising goosebumps (from the cold, and nothing else), but keeps walking, around the familiar shoreline, made somewhat stranger by the dark (and only by the dark; nothing but that)
je ne veux pas
into the building where she died.

It's just glass and roses.

It's the same as it ever was.

In the shadowed greenhouse, Meg finds a wall, and leans against it, closing her eyes.

It's just a building. It's the same as it ever was.

Repeat as necessary.

She will stay there 'till morning, she decides; and by the time morning comes, she will believe it.*
balletrat: (lookingdownmeg)
*She has all the time in the world, now. After all, there is no real time in the Threshold.

Her father has gone, now, with the promise that hesheit will show her more later - whatever later means, here, in this place that is now her home.

Shock is a useful tool; j'suis morte is still just a phrase, to her. That gives her a window of time, she thinks, calmly, to mentally rearrange.

This is home, now, and this is (life) existence, for all the timeless time in the world. It is a good existence, and she is happy with it.

(And certain words - words like Paris, maman, geek, BFF, fiancee; a long list of words - are not to be thought of. Not now. Not yet. Someday memory will fade, and turn into art, and she will dance all the better for it. But not yet.)

She sets her mind these rules, and for now, at least, still cushioned by fluffy red clouds, it obeys.

There is no time, in the Threshold; or if there is, it doesn't matter, really - not to Meg, not anymore.

That doesn't stop her from wondering how long it's been.*
balletrat: (humoringyoumeg)
See, this here? *Meg says, pointing up even as she drops a basket into a flat rock, by the lake.*

That's the sky. It's what you see when you go outside, instead of sitting in a room all day. Anything coming back to you, yet?

*The sky, currently decorated with a moon and several brightly shining stars, gleams beningly down.*
balletrat: (humoringyoumeg)
*Meg surveys her troops, as they stand in front of the front door of Milliways, and nods her head approvingly, with a grin.*

You'll all pass very respectably - well, not if you hold your skirts like that, Lilly.

*She puts a hand on the doorknob.*


*Two gunslingers and their ladies are about to enter the most beautiful city in the world.

If Paris knows what's good for it, it will make very sure they have a good time.*
balletrat: (Default)
Dansez sous la lune
Royaume de tous-lumieres
Et la rose tout s'allume

Fille aux blondes cheveux
Pleurer, chanter, danser, rire
Rire-commala, mieux

Ne s'occupe pas de lois
C'est l'amour ou c'est la mort
Y a toujours un choix

La maitresse et le maitre
Faire commala dans les champs
Et pas besoin de pretre

Ne pense pas au banque
Argent lac et froment d'or
Et rien te manques

Trop pour la calice
Danse toute la jour et nuit
Mais n'oublie pas le prix
balletrat: (thoughtfulsadmeg)
*There is a graveyard in Paris, and in it sits a stone without a name.
Wishing you were somehow here again
Few of the stones in this graveyard show any signs of recent attention; this is where those go with no family to speak for them, those with only one or two friends to speak up to save them from a pauper's grave.
Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed
Somehow you would be here

But in front of the grave of l'americain inconnu, there are two roses - the same shade of red, although a grower of roses might be able to tell that they didn't come from the same bush, or even the same breed.
Wishing we could say goodbye
And, leaving the graveyard, a flash of incongruously bright pink, soon vanished behind the gate and gone.*
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