(no subject)
Dec. 7th, 2008 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
In one sense: River is curled up in her bunk's narrow bed, a tidy lump under blankets with dark hair fanning all around her head. She's sound asleep.
In another sense: River is in a maze, old-fashioned, planetside -- a hedge of high green bushes with white flowers, with a floor of incongruously dead dry grass. It crackles under her ballet slippers. The blossoming walls are too dense to see through, rearing twice as tall as River, and the corridors are green and cool and silent. It's a labyrinth.
She doesn't know her way through. But in the dream, she hasn't really stopped to notice that. She just has to keep moving, and she'll get... somewhere.
She hasn't really thought about that one, either.
In another sense: River is in a maze, old-fashioned, planetside -- a hedge of high green bushes with white flowers, with a floor of incongruously dead dry grass. It crackles under her ballet slippers. The blossoming walls are too dense to see through, rearing twice as tall as River, and the corridors are green and cool and silent. It's a labyrinth.
She doesn't know her way through. But in the dream, she hasn't really stopped to notice that. She just has to keep moving, and she'll get... somewhere.
She hasn't really thought about that one, either.
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Date: 2008-12-08 04:21 am (UTC)Another corner: an autumn leaf, orange-gold, brilliant.
Then, one more corner: a
(stone, a leaf, a)
door.
It's standing open.
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Date: 2008-12-08 04:29 am (UTC)(Not right now.)
The path stretches to either side, verdant, branching, endless. She ignores it, and slips through the doorway.
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Date: 2008-12-08 04:34 am (UTC)In the chair, a man, unsmiling. He has his back to the door.
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Date: 2008-12-08 04:50 am (UTC)There are many reasons to con your vantage.
Then, slowly -- steadily -- she moves.
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Date: 2008-12-08 04:54 am (UTC)One word:
"Hile."
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Date: 2008-12-08 05:05 am (UTC)(Anything, said right, can be a kind of endearment.)
"Hile."
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Date: 2008-12-08 05:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-08 05:23 am (UTC)She nods, and her smile is very faint.
"I came," she says, even though maybe this was her destination and maybe it wasn't (and maybe it still isn't, but does it matter?) and what she means is yes.
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Date: 2008-12-08 05:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-08 05:39 am (UTC)She holds up her palm anyway.
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Date: 2008-12-08 05:43 am (UTC)Somewhere: the sound of crickets.
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Date: 2008-12-08 05:56 am (UTC)She leans back in her chair -- comfortable as an armchair, despite the oak ladderback -- and tucks her legs up underneath her.
Time passes. A minute, an hour, a year.
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Date: 2008-12-08 05:58 am (UTC)That's all.
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Date: 2008-12-08 06:06 am (UTC)In the waking world, at the moment, this is where River would stare down at the table or her hands, tense and fretful and quiet. River's not much good with awkward subjects, and emotionally laden ones.
Here, now, in this waystation of a hedge-chamber, she only breathes out, and watches two streams of white smoke twine through the air between them.
Low: "I want him to stay."
It's not miserable. It's not pleading. It's just quiet, and wistful.
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Date: 2008-12-08 06:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-08 06:27 am (UTC)Their chairs stand on a floor layered with carpeted rugs. The patterns are multicolored, dizzyingly complex.
Now, even in the dream, it's them River's staring at. But she can see Roland's face anyway. (It's a dream.)
Her voice is low, and layered with tangled emotions. "It's an excellent opportunity."
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Date: 2008-12-08 06:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-08 06:52 am (UTC)"I know it," she says, anyway.
"Constant checkpoints."
That's (mostly) not the problem.
Somewhere indefinably near, the crickets sing on.
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Date: 2008-12-08 06:55 am (UTC)He's blowing smoke rings.
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Date: 2008-12-09 04:53 am (UTC)The walls around them are white, painted, clean. They stretch up past vision.
Small: "I don't want to leave."
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Date: 2008-12-09 04:56 am (UTC)(and smiling)
he says, "Then don't leave."
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Date: 2008-12-09 05:04 am (UTC)It's not the same as I have to. It's not even the same as I will.
But it's small, and sad, and strangely (here in this dream) peaceful.
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Date: 2008-12-09 05:06 am (UTC)One arched eyebrow. "You might even learn something, mayhap."
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Date: 2008-12-09 05:20 am (UTC)(It's popcorn.)
River leans against his brown-coated shoulder in silence.
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Date: 2008-12-09 05:22 am (UTC)In front of them: a map of the Anglo-Sino Union of Allied Planets.
It moves, slowly.
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Date: 2008-12-09 05:34 am (UTC)She isn't whining. Even in her dreams, River lost the habit of self-pity a long while ago, and this isn't a dream to bring it back out.
But Roland's shoulder is warm against her cheek, and the map in front of them swings through its colorful rotations (inaccurate, but in the dream it isn't), and her voice is soft and sad.
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Date: 2008-12-09 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-09 05:46 am (UTC)It says, I know.
And it says, But still.
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Date: 2008-12-09 05:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-09 06:17 am (UTC)Today, maybe, when the day has properly begun. It's nearly morning. And the deadline's coming up fast for Simon and Kaylee to settle their housing arrangements.
The answer here is: "I will."
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Date: 2008-12-10 04:56 am (UTC)Simply:
"It is very well."
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Date: 2008-12-10 05:24 am (UTC)(faded bombadier)
eyes in silence for a long moment. She doesn't flinch, or blink. Instead, one corner of her mouth crooks up, just enough to see.
"I miss you," she whispers. This, too, is wistfully accepting.
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Date: 2008-12-10 05:34 am (UTC)(Uncustomary, if you're not River Tam.)
His eyes stay bright; the rest begins to fade.
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Date: 2008-12-10 06:00 am (UTC)Stay, she says, Roland, stay, but she can't talk. The words break on the air, splintering around her, and no sound is audible.
The couch is gone too; the rug is gone, the walls, and the hedge and the mirrors and the fine drifting cigarette smoke. And Roland.
River is left in a narrow cobblestoned street, alone, on a warm summer's night. She's wearing toe shoes, taking tiny delicate steps (pas de bourrée, triple run, assemblé) en pointe, even though her feet are relaxed and comfortable as they never could be doing in this position. She's holding a cupcake; it has sprinkles. The candle in it burns a faded, piercing blue. She doesn't remember why she was sad a moment ago.
But when she wakes, she will.