The studio was dusty and dirty, it was old and abandoned, maybe one day it would be brought back to life, but for now it remains idle, worn yet untouched at the same time. But to the fairy child's eyes, it is full of endless possibilities. The studio, despite being on the west side of town, a place of danger and unpredictability, it was close to arc and therefore Maeve knew she would be safe, Tobi, Tetra, and the others only a loud cry away. It had been the only way she could convince Roman to let her practice on her own within the realm of mirrors, ballet barres, pink slippers, and leotards. Maeve had never been the type of child to engage with the other children in games of tag, hide and go seek, or make believe adventures. The fae girl had always been entirely focused on her passion, her love of dance and her dream of becoming a prima ballerina, it left little time for childish games. Of course, she loved playing on playgrounds as much as the next child, but she found more joy at the ballet barre than the monkey bars.

She wears a long sleeve maroon dress and underneath are a pair of white tights finishing with a pair of white flats. As she enters into the abandoned studio she takes off her shoes, carefully places them beside the start of the wood floor. She carries a small dance bag over her shoulder and slides it off and onto the floor. Her maroon dress rises over her head to reveal a pale purple short sleeve leotard underneath, a few shades lighter than her own violet toned eyes. A pair of white ballet flats emerges from her bag and she slides them over her petite, child feet. They are worn and well loved as her dance instructor would say, but Maeve adores her ballet slipper all the same. There are marks from where they have been sewn and patched, the shoes are clearly old, Maeve having grown so slowly over the years that she was able to keep her same slippers. Amethyst eyes go to the mirror as she pulls a hair tie and bobby pins from her bag. The fae child has been doing her own hair since before she can remember and in just a few minutes, her long creamy hair has now been confined to a proper ballet bun, those delicately pointed ears exposed, she admires herself for just a moment, thinking how as she aged she was beginning to look more and more like a ballerina. Perhaps she would be as beautiful as Arya the were one day.

With pale golden hair up, ballet slippers on feet, and a sense of focus flowing over her like a gentle rain shower, and a smile curls onto her lips as she comes to a stand position. Maeve had always had a dainty figure, petite yet beautiful. She remembers her dance instructor had called her little ballerina, always describing male as beautiful rather than cute or adorable. It seemed to be that way with most adults that the fae child encountered. The grown ups seemed to have a hard time calling her a cutie. Perhaps it was the way her gaze seemed so steady, so sure sometimes, like she was staring into the heart of other person. Or maybe it was that haunted look behind those amethyst eyes of hers, the look that most foster children seemed to share. Or maybe it was the way she moved with a quiet humbleness. Or maybe it was the intelligence of a child that knows far too much for a child her age to know. Whatever it was as Maeve begins her stretches and her plies at the ballet barre, it is clear she is not just a simple child, but something else all together.

And as the little girl dances, making up her own routine, her own special moves, she thinks of the sunset she had seen just the other night, how it had taken her breath away with its beauty, ow the golds and pinks painted the clouds in such a way that gave her chills. And she recreates the movements of that sunset, rising and falling, as the sun would fall and the horizon would rise to catch it. She gathers her small body together, holding tightly as she turns, thinking of how the clouds had gathered together, as if they too wanted to watch the beauty of the sunset, before exploding outwards as she thinks of how the colors had streamed across the sky like ribbons dancing in the wind. It was here, in the midst of her dancing, within a studio, any studio that Maeve felt so safe, so happy, like nothing could touch her in this world, real or imagined.

The song inside her head ends.
The sunset flutters away.
It is just Maeve.

Alone in an abandoned ballet studio.

Those bright amethyst eyes stare at her own reflection, Maeve knew she was no prima ballerina, would not be for quite some time, but as she gazes at her own reflection in the mirror she thinks about how small she looks. She thinks about all she has faced out in the world. Being left by her biological parents, facing uncaring foster parents, running away from her foster homes, living on her own, feeding herself, clothing herself. And now she stands there in that abandoned ballet studio in a leotard, tights, and ballet slippers and she wonders how she got to such a point in her young life, how she has come this far, and she wonders too if maybe it will get easier. Maeve thinks all these things that eight year olds ought not to be thinking.

As she lowers herself down to the floor and comes to lay on her back, feeling the hard wood press against her petite bones, Maeve heaves a gentle sigh as she stares up at the neutral colored ceiling, she notes the holes that litter it, no doubt from some half hearted renovations. The paint was chipped in more places than the pale girl could count. Those wide eyes of hers remain open as she slips into a fantasy of performing on the stage once again. Due to having moved around so much and so often, it had been nearly two years since Maeve had last performed in a recital and it saddened the child. And then, as she closes those violet eyes, she can almost see it. Maybe one day her vision would become reality, but for now, the child contents herself to know she still was able to find a place, however broken and abandoned it was, that she could still let herself dance the day away.