So late they're early...
So, I never did finish my fic for the femgenficathon Round 2. The reason? I'm an easily distracted LotR drabblist trying to write a lengthy piece in a new fandom. (Hey, the prompt was concerning pioneers; why not go all out?) So, instead of one piece totaling a minimum of 1000 words, I end up with two unfinished pieces roughly averaging 1150 words each, and one more tangentially related novella about to eat my brain. Previews for each fic are under the cut, in hopes that one will attract a beta, or at least amuse.
46) It is not easy to be a pioneer -- but oh, it is fascinating! I would not trade one moment, even the worst moment, for all the riches in the world.--Elizabeth Blackwell.
Fic #1: Discworld, Cheery Littlebottom, current word-count: 938
Summary: Cheery reflects upon the growing watch.
Status: 60 ##@!&^#$^ more words and none of these others might have happened, but my Cheery!muse was bailing at about 700.
Cheery Pioneer
Cri-click.
“You’re thure you don’t want me to replace these? I’ve got a whole set of thpareth.”
Cheery winced even harder. “Thank you, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“If you thay tho,” Igor said somewhat disappointedly, clicking her spine back into place. Granted, being sat upon by a troll hurt, but it was not nearly as disquieting as getting fixed back up by the surgeon at hand, even if he did forget to lisp sometimes. Constable Bluejohn had not meant to throw the offender at his coworker, after all. “Jutht once more, I think,” Igor warned.
CLICK.
“Ow!” Cheery bit back a dwarvish curse. Igor might not mind being compared to Dr. Lawn, but there was no reason to upset a being with the best biceps he could find when he had his hands upon one’s rather delicate spinal cord. “Thanks, Igor,” she managed at last.
“My pleathure, Thargeant.” Igor bowed slightly and gave her that typical disturbing grin. It was bad enough at any time, to see what appeared to be a moltey collection from at least five sets of teeth in one mouth, but even worse when one had just been very close to becoming as much of a mixed bag as said maw.
Cheery reached gingerly for her back, trying to determine whether or not it was still hers. All the bones appeared to be there; no major scars, and while it was bruised as an assassin in the Vimes’ yard, it did feel better. One thing had to be said for Igor: he really was good at patching people up.
Time for her to get back to work, too. Just because she wouldn’t be beating the streets for a few days did not mean she couldn’t make herself useful to the Watch from a nice, padded, high-backed chair. Hopefully, she would even be able to work from one that had not been overly stained, burned, or squished. A tall order, given her line of bunsiness, Commander Vimes’s cigars, Nobby’s dog ends, Angua’s monthly chewing habit, and the thirty trolls that rotated on and off duty, but a dwarf could dream, at any rate.
The chair behind her desk lacked a certain something about the armrests*, but it would serve her purposes. Cheery settled back in the chair, taking care to adjust her skirt and beard before she considered the paperwork in front of her.
_
*Wood, for one thing. There were also chunks missing from the seat. The sounds of Detritus’s crossbow practice did not combine particularly well with strong acids.
_
There were a number of requests for her alchemic skills, of course. As much as Commander Vimes might distrust clues, her work had helped solve a good number of cases and brought criminals to justice. Cheery walked her beat the same as any other copper; she just was able to look a little closer at the streets*.
_
*Her height didn’t hurt in this regard, either.
_
The requests had begun to pile up, actually, but not all of them needed her direct help. Quite a few of them simply wanted her to double-check the tentative conclusions of ealier testing. She had begun to get used to an occasional inquiry of this sort from Igor, but it still surprised her to get such notes from relative rookies in the force. Although Cheery Littlebottom was hardly the first person to join the Watch, the rapid expansion of Ankh-Morpork’s police force still took her by surprise, sometimes. Had it really been only a few years since she had been attempting not to blow up the Alchemists’ Guildhouse?
Indeed, it had been; six or seven years had passed since the dwarf had begun burning her beard and playing down her brief career path with the Seamtresses’ Guild in these new environs. Seven eventful years of make-up tips, golems, burnt carpets, trolls, and trying to stay out of Vimes’s hair.
And now, not only was she the head of her little division, but the Watch’s Forensics Department was actually beginning to deserve the name of “division.” Much of the other assorted paperwork cluttering her desk was applications and letters of recommendation. Cheery shook her head slightly, doing her best not to undo Igor’s work. They were asking her for jobs, now, when for so long her skills had been considered only on par with Nobby’s, if you believed in the ranking system. A funny old world, it was.
* * *
Despite all the things that had improved with time, there were moments when Cheery understood the reasons why her commander longed for the old days of the Watch. Her “old days” were more recent than his were, but they still featured much less paperwork than her desk. The joys of being able to recommend rookies to new assignments soon paled when faced with nothing else to do. Even her lab time was limited by her back injury, for there were certain chemicals that one simply did not handle if one were not in possession of a healthy running ability.
Cheery looked again at the report on the desk, contemplating her idly drawn doodles in the margins. No, complex carbon chains should definitely not wear hairbows. They probably shouldn’t sparkle at such a molecular level, either. Really, the little dashes added nothing to the majesty of the formula, even if she had subconsciously added an “Au ” upon one end. “Hmm…” she murmured, smiling despite herself. You could take the dwarf out of the mine, but obviously, you could not get everything mine-related out of the dwarf. Even if she really was not all that fond of gold. Really.
Fic #2: Valdemar, current word count: 674
Summary: After the Mage Storms, a young Hawkbrother archivist is eager to learn more about a world without magic.
Status: Not usuable for the ficathon until I introduce a canon female in, but it's been so long since I read the applicable part of the series that I don't know who I'd use. The fic's supposed to be a bit of a commentary on the Holder's society and how it's viewed by the author versus a working society. I'm not sure if any canons would work, honestly. The fic's about to eat my brain if I do the research required to expand it to novel length, though...
k'Hold
Brown alone did not a plain outfit make. Starsong had put together the drabbest clothing that she could beg, borrow, or steal away from the disapproving hertasi, but she still felt as if she stood out like an oversized magpie amongst a nest of wrens. She had heard that most of the people of k’Valdemar dressed rather conservatively, but the folk she had met along the roads on the way to this particular Holding had in no way prepared her for just how far “conservative” could be taken. As unusual to her as these folk were, it was the magpie’s turn to try to keep from gawking.
Starsong was here for more than walking hertasi nightmares, after all. The young archivist had been planning a tour of the northernmost clan since the storms had subsided. Certainly, her quest had not been high upon any of the mages’ lists of priorities, what with the sudden reappearance of two lost civilizations, the mage-storm-worsened Pelgarirs, and the very real possibility of attack from the Eastern Empire. Surely, the archivists ought to be getting more than enough material to fill hundreds of history books from their own clans’ experiences alone, without bothering to go on long journeys.
Starsong did not deny that the Bear clan had had more than its share of goings-on lately, but there were other Hawkbrother historians who would be willing to commit its adventures to paper. What interested her were the lives of these foreigners who had lived without magic for generations. The mage-storms had driven home just why their knowledge could be so important. Not everyone was lucky enough to be raised in a Vale, after all. Starsong had figured that it was up to her to record at least some of the local history before magic became too pervasive in Valdemar, since no one else seemed to have the time or willingness to make a full anthropological survey here.
There was old Tyrrl, but he and his secretary had their hands full with court business. The young woman figured that she would be doing them a favor, getting a feel for the local flavor while they organized their notes on Urtho’s Tower. There was another place she would love to explore, but Starsong figured that she had pushed her luck far enough, “volunteering” to go with the Gated supplies to Haven. Tyrrl had been very kind in helping her with her initial inquiries, but Starsong had resigned herself to the fact that it would likely be the last that she would be able to work with the famed kryee.
The place he had recommended was at the very edge of k’Valdemar’s lands, just along the border with Karse. Here, Tyrrl had said, lived people who not only survived without the true magic that Starsong and her clan had known all their lives, but they also lived for the most part without the mind magic that k’Valdemar’s Heralds specialized in. Hold-folk, Tyrrl had called them. The name alone sent shivers of wonder down her spine.
He had also warned her that her bondbird, a small owl named Tsier, would not likely receive a warm welcome. Starsong did not think it would be a terrible crime to allow the bubbly little brown fellow to sleep late and then go hunting on his own for one night. She could still contact Tsier in an emergency, after all, even if they were separated by a goodly amount of mileage. And while he lacked the vocabulary of the larger hawks and eagles, Tsier was very good with images when his human partner needed him to focus.
If only Tyrrl had mentioned that given her image, Starsong herself was unlikely to earn a very friendly greeting, either. Most simply pretended that the stranger did not exist, but more than a few went out of their way to avoid the white-haired young woman. This did not bode well for her records. How was she to assemble anything resembling an accurate and unbiased opinion if the people shunned her entirely?
Fic #3: Firefly, Inara and River, current word-count: 1642
Summary: Inara has learned to pull up her ties before they break her. Set after "Heart of Gold," with references to "Out of Gas" and "Shindig."
Status: Gah; meet the Ficlet That Wouldn't End. I was afraid I wouldn't make word-count and added more flashbacks than I should have, but now I've tied them in too much to take them out. It's my first one in this fandom and I'm not yet comfortable with River's voice. You never know how hard it is to get dialouge right until you really screw one up... Still, could've been worse. I think I've got a better feel for the scenery in my head for this fandom.
Notes Out of Time
Truthfully, it would not take her very long to pack. Most of her dresses and supplies were already stowed away in one cupboard or another, to be pulled out only when she or a client required them. But right now, Inara needed the distraction of sorting through her possessions, and a last-minute inventory never hurt. Rim-raised space pirate or not, Mal was too much of a gentleman to steal anything from her, but the Companion had seen the way Jayne’s eyes lingered upon some of her jewelry.
She didn’t even intend to take all of it. Her decision with Mal applied to little things as well. No attachments, no keepsakes, no bonds, no chains. Nirvana did not require any of such things.
Inara turned a silver-backed hairbrush in her hands. Perhaps she would give it to Kaylee. Who knew how many hours the two women had spent doing one another’s hair, talking, laughing, and making plans for their futures?
“You think it looks all right?” Kaylee reached up to touch the mass of curls.
Inara considered their reflections in the mirror, laying the brush delicately upon the counter. “I think I know what’s missing.” She reached into the vanity drawer and pulled out a long, silken pink bow. Kaylee’s smile glowed, reflecting its warmth a thousandfold in the mirror.
No, Mal would not be the only attachment she was walking away from. Maybe she would even leave Jayne a bit of shiny, since he seemed to have behaved himself. Then, there was Shepherd Book.
Out of all the people to step aboard Serenity, he was one of the last that Inara would have expected to have had a pleasant relationship with, but Inara heard more about fire and brimstone from Malcolm Reynolds than the priest. Book’s presence was a hidden scented candle aboard the ship: simple, soothing, - perhaps unexpected, but very welcome. The older man might well appreciate some of the incense she used in her meditations.
“What the gorram hell died in here?” Jayne wrinkled his nose as they entered the Companion’s shuttle.
“It’s incense,” Inara snapped, wrapping her shawl tighter about her. “It’s an essential part of many ancient cleansing rituals. Not that I’d expect you to recognize any of them.”
“It stinks,” the big merc maintained, his eyes hungrily taking inventory of the lush quarters. Book put a hand to his arm, letting Kaylee and Inara by.
“I find it calming,” Book said. “There’s something hopeful about it.”
“Makes ya hopeful that you’ll get away from it.” Jayne straightened the collar of his jacket, maintaining as much cocky dignity as a man in a floppy green aviator’s cap could in the chilled surroundings.
Book laughed, and offered Inara a wink. “I’m sure you will, Jayne.” Despite the cold and the none-too-smooth takeoff, Inara’s hand steadied as she lit her candles, providing the light and the scent of hope.
Inara opened another storage locker, revealing the oddly shaped, carefully wrapped and padded casings. The corner of her mouth twitched, and her hands eased the locker shut again, cases unopened. Now was not the time to look through those.
Like any Companion, Inara had received training with the flute, the dulcimer, the violin, and various types of percussion instruments. She had never displayed more than a middling skill with any, but had kept the dulcimer and flute, as she found she enjoyed practicing them. Part of the reason for her affection for the dulcimer was for the memories she associated with the instrument. Any community in the Rim might boast a fiddle-player, or a musician with a set of pipes, but only the highest circles of Core society were known to host a Companion-trained dulcimer performer. The Guild took this honor seriously, and the teachers took pains to insure that their students were at least aware of the great tradition and prestige of the anicient instruments. It had not rubbed off on everyone, though, Inara remembered with a wistful half-smile.
They had sat towards the back, kneeling in the third from the front of the precise rows curved about the music master. It was not so far back that he would take notice of them out of sheer pique, but far enough from Marzi the Prodigy and Zhang-mei the Overachiever that his attention would not accidentally be drawn their way, either. Zhang-mei and Marzi would always be the teacher’s favorites, but Inara lacked a natural ear for the stringed wooden instrument and Nandi was bored stiff by the lessons. It was a pity, Inara thought. If her friend would ever bother to practice, she could have been at least as good as Zhang-mei. Nandi had certainly showed as much passion and precision as any instructor might wish when she smashed the instrument over her master’s head. He had bled from that, like she had bled later - wounded by the things they loved most.
A soft knock at the entryway interrupted her thoughts. It wasn’t Mal, then, at least. Mal would never learn to knock. “Come in,” Inara called, rising and stepping away from the locker.
A head of long, straight, dark brown hair glided into the room backwards, the light cotton dress fluttering in counterpoint. The visitor spun, her hair and skirt billowing; catching the wind in her movements, even in the still satin-draped confines of Inara’s shuttle. “It’s too loud outside. Too many crying. Too much creaking. Water oxidizes the ship’s metal and I’m out of oil for the hinges,” River informed her, plunking herself down on the Companion’s bed next to a pile of as-yet unsorted belongings. The girl swung her bare feet over the edge of the mattress, admiring the bejeweled sleeve of one of Inara’s heavier gowns.
“I don’t believe I have any lubricant of that sort. Maybe you ought to ask Kaylee,” the older woman said. She could sympathize with wanting to get away from the fueneral atmosphere.
River’s mouth flattened, and her large brown eyes narrowed cynically. “She’s adding to the problem. You, at least, have stopped your individual output of saline.”
“Everyone handles grief differently, River.” Inara cleared a space on the couch to sit facing her odd visitor. The heavy table with its tea set and candles was comfortably solid between them.
“We run. Hurts too much.” Dropping the sleeve, the girl wrapped her arms about herself. “Pulls me too tight.” Inara could only nod in sympathy. River lept from the bed as impetuously as she had sat upon it. “Book reads, Jayne lies under his bars, Simon fiddles with his supplies, Wash sits at his controls, Cap cleans his gun, but I need movement. I need vibration of sound waves and wind on my face and room to fly.” Arms wide, she twirled and twisted through the room, coming to an abrupt halt before the couch. “Otherwise I break again.” Forgoing the graceful, wild port de bras that had accompanied her earlier movement, the girl dropped her hands to her sides, shoulders slumping. “Broken string’s no good. Throws off the pitch.”
“All of us could use a little fine-tuning, I suppose.” Although she found it difficult to keep up with the twists and shifts of the expressive-faced dancer’s chain of thought, Inara thought she got the gist of River’s problem.
Truthfully, it was not so different from her own, save that this young one had already seen her great dream turn into a nightmare. “She wanted to go to the Academy,” Simon had said. But once she had gotten there, her mind had only been the first of River’s losses. Tempted by the chance to improve herself, blinded by her love of learning, the girl had gone willingly into the den of beasts that would have destroyed her, had her brother not come to her rescue.
“Don’t know that there’s enough left to tune.” River shook out the long sleeves of her own baggy outfit. Although both Inara and Kaylee had offered to take her shopping in the smaller, quieter outposts along the Rim, the girl continued to favor swirling, shapeless skirts and oversized sweaters that threatened to swallow her thin frame whole. The final effect made River look even younger than her years, as if she had lost something of her body at the Academy, as well. “If I stretch much more, I’ll snap, but if I don’t, I’ll fall off.”
“Every now and then, it’s okay to fall off, mei-mei,” Inara said quietly, standing from the couch. “You can’t keep something beautiful just right forever.”
River looked around the room, taking in the velvet curtains pulled aside for storage and the sumptuous bedclothes buried under a pile of unsorted dresses, the gemmed sleeve that had caught her eye earlier twinkling in the chaos. “No,” she said softly. “Sometimes it breaks anyway.”
“And sometimes, you can put it away so that you can put it back together,” Inara said firmly.
“Not in the same configuration. Entropy alone guarantees that. Still, better to consciously separate than break.” The girl deftly avoided Inara as the Companion moved about the table, wandering about the room at a much graver pace than she had entered it. “We might fit somewhere else.” The large doe-brown eyes belied her statement, examining the half-packed shuttle accusingly.
“You fit in with Serenity, River. We may not all be smuggling con-men like Mal, but both of us have found our places on this ship.” Inara’s lips twisted, her smile somewhat forced. “When we need to, we’ll find our places out there, too.”
“You need to do so now.” River nodded, understanding. “Just don’t find a place too far away. Captain’s too quiet without you.”
“I’m sure you’ll give him something to fuss about.” Her smile returned as she accompanied her guest to the door.
“Probably will,” River acknowledged. “But wherever you go, take a bit of Serenity with you.”
46) It is not easy to be a pioneer -- but oh, it is fascinating! I would not trade one moment, even the worst moment, for all the riches in the world.--Elizabeth Blackwell.
Fic #1: Discworld, Cheery Littlebottom, current word-count: 938
Summary: Cheery reflects upon the growing watch.
Status: 60 ##@!&^#$^ more words and none of these others might have happened, but my Cheery!muse was bailing at about 700.
Cheery Pioneer
Cri-click.
“You’re thure you don’t want me to replace these? I’ve got a whole set of thpareth.”
Cheery winced even harder. “Thank you, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“If you thay tho,” Igor said somewhat disappointedly, clicking her spine back into place. Granted, being sat upon by a troll hurt, but it was not nearly as disquieting as getting fixed back up by the surgeon at hand, even if he did forget to lisp sometimes. Constable Bluejohn had not meant to throw the offender at his coworker, after all. “Jutht once more, I think,” Igor warned.
CLICK.
“Ow!” Cheery bit back a dwarvish curse. Igor might not mind being compared to Dr. Lawn, but there was no reason to upset a being with the best biceps he could find when he had his hands upon one’s rather delicate spinal cord. “Thanks, Igor,” she managed at last.
“My pleathure, Thargeant.” Igor bowed slightly and gave her that typical disturbing grin. It was bad enough at any time, to see what appeared to be a moltey collection from at least five sets of teeth in one mouth, but even worse when one had just been very close to becoming as much of a mixed bag as said maw.
Cheery reached gingerly for her back, trying to determine whether or not it was still hers. All the bones appeared to be there; no major scars, and while it was bruised as an assassin in the Vimes’ yard, it did feel better. One thing had to be said for Igor: he really was good at patching people up.
Time for her to get back to work, too. Just because she wouldn’t be beating the streets for a few days did not mean she couldn’t make herself useful to the Watch from a nice, padded, high-backed chair. Hopefully, she would even be able to work from one that had not been overly stained, burned, or squished. A tall order, given her line of bunsiness, Commander Vimes’s cigars, Nobby’s dog ends, Angua’s monthly chewing habit, and the thirty trolls that rotated on and off duty, but a dwarf could dream, at any rate.
The chair behind her desk lacked a certain something about the armrests*, but it would serve her purposes. Cheery settled back in the chair, taking care to adjust her skirt and beard before she considered the paperwork in front of her.
_
*Wood, for one thing. There were also chunks missing from the seat. The sounds of Detritus’s crossbow practice did not combine particularly well with strong acids.
_
There were a number of requests for her alchemic skills, of course. As much as Commander Vimes might distrust clues, her work had helped solve a good number of cases and brought criminals to justice. Cheery walked her beat the same as any other copper; she just was able to look a little closer at the streets*.
_
*Her height didn’t hurt in this regard, either.
_
The requests had begun to pile up, actually, but not all of them needed her direct help. Quite a few of them simply wanted her to double-check the tentative conclusions of ealier testing. She had begun to get used to an occasional inquiry of this sort from Igor, but it still surprised her to get such notes from relative rookies in the force. Although Cheery Littlebottom was hardly the first person to join the Watch, the rapid expansion of Ankh-Morpork’s police force still took her by surprise, sometimes. Had it really been only a few years since she had been attempting not to blow up the Alchemists’ Guildhouse?
Indeed, it had been; six or seven years had passed since the dwarf had begun burning her beard and playing down her brief career path with the Seamtresses’ Guild in these new environs. Seven eventful years of make-up tips, golems, burnt carpets, trolls, and trying to stay out of Vimes’s hair.
And now, not only was she the head of her little division, but the Watch’s Forensics Department was actually beginning to deserve the name of “division.” Much of the other assorted paperwork cluttering her desk was applications and letters of recommendation. Cheery shook her head slightly, doing her best not to undo Igor’s work. They were asking her for jobs, now, when for so long her skills had been considered only on par with Nobby’s, if you believed in the ranking system. A funny old world, it was.
* * *
Despite all the things that had improved with time, there were moments when Cheery understood the reasons why her commander longed for the old days of the Watch. Her “old days” were more recent than his were, but they still featured much less paperwork than her desk. The joys of being able to recommend rookies to new assignments soon paled when faced with nothing else to do. Even her lab time was limited by her back injury, for there were certain chemicals that one simply did not handle if one were not in possession of a healthy running ability.
Cheery looked again at the report on the desk, contemplating her idly drawn doodles in the margins. No, complex carbon chains should definitely not wear hairbows. They probably shouldn’t sparkle at such a molecular level, either. Really, the little dashes added nothing to the majesty of the formula, even if she had subconsciously added an “Au ” upon one end. “Hmm…” she murmured, smiling despite herself. You could take the dwarf out of the mine, but obviously, you could not get everything mine-related out of the dwarf. Even if she really was not all that fond of gold. Really.
Fic #2: Valdemar, current word count: 674
Summary: After the Mage Storms, a young Hawkbrother archivist is eager to learn more about a world without magic.
Status: Not usuable for the ficathon until I introduce a canon female in, but it's been so long since I read the applicable part of the series that I don't know who I'd use. The fic's supposed to be a bit of a commentary on the Holder's society and how it's viewed by the author versus a working society. I'm not sure if any canons would work, honestly. The fic's about to eat my brain if I do the research required to expand it to novel length, though...
k'Hold
Brown alone did not a plain outfit make. Starsong had put together the drabbest clothing that she could beg, borrow, or steal away from the disapproving hertasi, but she still felt as if she stood out like an oversized magpie amongst a nest of wrens. She had heard that most of the people of k’Valdemar dressed rather conservatively, but the folk she had met along the roads on the way to this particular Holding had in no way prepared her for just how far “conservative” could be taken. As unusual to her as these folk were, it was the magpie’s turn to try to keep from gawking.
Starsong was here for more than walking hertasi nightmares, after all. The young archivist had been planning a tour of the northernmost clan since the storms had subsided. Certainly, her quest had not been high upon any of the mages’ lists of priorities, what with the sudden reappearance of two lost civilizations, the mage-storm-worsened Pelgarirs, and the very real possibility of attack from the Eastern Empire. Surely, the archivists ought to be getting more than enough material to fill hundreds of history books from their own clans’ experiences alone, without bothering to go on long journeys.
Starsong did not deny that the Bear clan had had more than its share of goings-on lately, but there were other Hawkbrother historians who would be willing to commit its adventures to paper. What interested her were the lives of these foreigners who had lived without magic for generations. The mage-storms had driven home just why their knowledge could be so important. Not everyone was lucky enough to be raised in a Vale, after all. Starsong had figured that it was up to her to record at least some of the local history before magic became too pervasive in Valdemar, since no one else seemed to have the time or willingness to make a full anthropological survey here.
There was old Tyrrl, but he and his secretary had their hands full with court business. The young woman figured that she would be doing them a favor, getting a feel for the local flavor while they organized their notes on Urtho’s Tower. There was another place she would love to explore, but Starsong figured that she had pushed her luck far enough, “volunteering” to go with the Gated supplies to Haven. Tyrrl had been very kind in helping her with her initial inquiries, but Starsong had resigned herself to the fact that it would likely be the last that she would be able to work with the famed kryee.
The place he had recommended was at the very edge of k’Valdemar’s lands, just along the border with Karse. Here, Tyrrl had said, lived people who not only survived without the true magic that Starsong and her clan had known all their lives, but they also lived for the most part without the mind magic that k’Valdemar’s Heralds specialized in. Hold-folk, Tyrrl had called them. The name alone sent shivers of wonder down her spine.
He had also warned her that her bondbird, a small owl named Tsier, would not likely receive a warm welcome. Starsong did not think it would be a terrible crime to allow the bubbly little brown fellow to sleep late and then go hunting on his own for one night. She could still contact Tsier in an emergency, after all, even if they were separated by a goodly amount of mileage. And while he lacked the vocabulary of the larger hawks and eagles, Tsier was very good with images when his human partner needed him to focus.
If only Tyrrl had mentioned that given her image, Starsong herself was unlikely to earn a very friendly greeting, either. Most simply pretended that the stranger did not exist, but more than a few went out of their way to avoid the white-haired young woman. This did not bode well for her records. How was she to assemble anything resembling an accurate and unbiased opinion if the people shunned her entirely?
Fic #3: Firefly, Inara and River, current word-count: 1642
Summary: Inara has learned to pull up her ties before they break her. Set after "Heart of Gold," with references to "Out of Gas" and "Shindig."
Status: Gah; meet the Ficlet That Wouldn't End. I was afraid I wouldn't make word-count and added more flashbacks than I should have, but now I've tied them in too much to take them out. It's my first one in this fandom and I'm not yet comfortable with River's voice. You never know how hard it is to get dialouge right until you really screw one up... Still, could've been worse. I think I've got a better feel for the scenery in my head for this fandom.
Notes Out of Time
Truthfully, it would not take her very long to pack. Most of her dresses and supplies were already stowed away in one cupboard or another, to be pulled out only when she or a client required them. But right now, Inara needed the distraction of sorting through her possessions, and a last-minute inventory never hurt. Rim-raised space pirate or not, Mal was too much of a gentleman to steal anything from her, but the Companion had seen the way Jayne’s eyes lingered upon some of her jewelry.
She didn’t even intend to take all of it. Her decision with Mal applied to little things as well. No attachments, no keepsakes, no bonds, no chains. Nirvana did not require any of such things.
Inara turned a silver-backed hairbrush in her hands. Perhaps she would give it to Kaylee. Who knew how many hours the two women had spent doing one another’s hair, talking, laughing, and making plans for their futures?
“You think it looks all right?” Kaylee reached up to touch the mass of curls.
Inara considered their reflections in the mirror, laying the brush delicately upon the counter. “I think I know what’s missing.” She reached into the vanity drawer and pulled out a long, silken pink bow. Kaylee’s smile glowed, reflecting its warmth a thousandfold in the mirror.
No, Mal would not be the only attachment she was walking away from. Maybe she would even leave Jayne a bit of shiny, since he seemed to have behaved himself. Then, there was Shepherd Book.
Out of all the people to step aboard Serenity, he was one of the last that Inara would have expected to have had a pleasant relationship with, but Inara heard more about fire and brimstone from Malcolm Reynolds than the priest. Book’s presence was a hidden scented candle aboard the ship: simple, soothing, - perhaps unexpected, but very welcome. The older man might well appreciate some of the incense she used in her meditations.
“What the gorram hell died in here?” Jayne wrinkled his nose as they entered the Companion’s shuttle.
“It’s incense,” Inara snapped, wrapping her shawl tighter about her. “It’s an essential part of many ancient cleansing rituals. Not that I’d expect you to recognize any of them.”
“It stinks,” the big merc maintained, his eyes hungrily taking inventory of the lush quarters. Book put a hand to his arm, letting Kaylee and Inara by.
“I find it calming,” Book said. “There’s something hopeful about it.”
“Makes ya hopeful that you’ll get away from it.” Jayne straightened the collar of his jacket, maintaining as much cocky dignity as a man in a floppy green aviator’s cap could in the chilled surroundings.
Book laughed, and offered Inara a wink. “I’m sure you will, Jayne.” Despite the cold and the none-too-smooth takeoff, Inara’s hand steadied as she lit her candles, providing the light and the scent of hope.
Inara opened another storage locker, revealing the oddly shaped, carefully wrapped and padded casings. The corner of her mouth twitched, and her hands eased the locker shut again, cases unopened. Now was not the time to look through those.
Like any Companion, Inara had received training with the flute, the dulcimer, the violin, and various types of percussion instruments. She had never displayed more than a middling skill with any, but had kept the dulcimer and flute, as she found she enjoyed practicing them. Part of the reason for her affection for the dulcimer was for the memories she associated with the instrument. Any community in the Rim might boast a fiddle-player, or a musician with a set of pipes, but only the highest circles of Core society were known to host a Companion-trained dulcimer performer. The Guild took this honor seriously, and the teachers took pains to insure that their students were at least aware of the great tradition and prestige of the anicient instruments. It had not rubbed off on everyone, though, Inara remembered with a wistful half-smile.
They had sat towards the back, kneeling in the third from the front of the precise rows curved about the music master. It was not so far back that he would take notice of them out of sheer pique, but far enough from Marzi the Prodigy and Zhang-mei the Overachiever that his attention would not accidentally be drawn their way, either. Zhang-mei and Marzi would always be the teacher’s favorites, but Inara lacked a natural ear for the stringed wooden instrument and Nandi was bored stiff by the lessons. It was a pity, Inara thought. If her friend would ever bother to practice, she could have been at least as good as Zhang-mei. Nandi had certainly showed as much passion and precision as any instructor might wish when she smashed the instrument over her master’s head. He had bled from that, like she had bled later - wounded by the things they loved most.
A soft knock at the entryway interrupted her thoughts. It wasn’t Mal, then, at least. Mal would never learn to knock. “Come in,” Inara called, rising and stepping away from the locker.
A head of long, straight, dark brown hair glided into the room backwards, the light cotton dress fluttering in counterpoint. The visitor spun, her hair and skirt billowing; catching the wind in her movements, even in the still satin-draped confines of Inara’s shuttle. “It’s too loud outside. Too many crying. Too much creaking. Water oxidizes the ship’s metal and I’m out of oil for the hinges,” River informed her, plunking herself down on the Companion’s bed next to a pile of as-yet unsorted belongings. The girl swung her bare feet over the edge of the mattress, admiring the bejeweled sleeve of one of Inara’s heavier gowns.
“I don’t believe I have any lubricant of that sort. Maybe you ought to ask Kaylee,” the older woman said. She could sympathize with wanting to get away from the fueneral atmosphere.
River’s mouth flattened, and her large brown eyes narrowed cynically. “She’s adding to the problem. You, at least, have stopped your individual output of saline.”
“Everyone handles grief differently, River.” Inara cleared a space on the couch to sit facing her odd visitor. The heavy table with its tea set and candles was comfortably solid between them.
“We run. Hurts too much.” Dropping the sleeve, the girl wrapped her arms about herself. “Pulls me too tight.” Inara could only nod in sympathy. River lept from the bed as impetuously as she had sat upon it. “Book reads, Jayne lies under his bars, Simon fiddles with his supplies, Wash sits at his controls, Cap cleans his gun, but I need movement. I need vibration of sound waves and wind on my face and room to fly.” Arms wide, she twirled and twisted through the room, coming to an abrupt halt before the couch. “Otherwise I break again.” Forgoing the graceful, wild port de bras that had accompanied her earlier movement, the girl dropped her hands to her sides, shoulders slumping. “Broken string’s no good. Throws off the pitch.”
“All of us could use a little fine-tuning, I suppose.” Although she found it difficult to keep up with the twists and shifts of the expressive-faced dancer’s chain of thought, Inara thought she got the gist of River’s problem.
Truthfully, it was not so different from her own, save that this young one had already seen her great dream turn into a nightmare. “She wanted to go to the Academy,” Simon had said. But once she had gotten there, her mind had only been the first of River’s losses. Tempted by the chance to improve herself, blinded by her love of learning, the girl had gone willingly into the den of beasts that would have destroyed her, had her brother not come to her rescue.
“Don’t know that there’s enough left to tune.” River shook out the long sleeves of her own baggy outfit. Although both Inara and Kaylee had offered to take her shopping in the smaller, quieter outposts along the Rim, the girl continued to favor swirling, shapeless skirts and oversized sweaters that threatened to swallow her thin frame whole. The final effect made River look even younger than her years, as if she had lost something of her body at the Academy, as well. “If I stretch much more, I’ll snap, but if I don’t, I’ll fall off.”
“Every now and then, it’s okay to fall off, mei-mei,” Inara said quietly, standing from the couch. “You can’t keep something beautiful just right forever.”
River looked around the room, taking in the velvet curtains pulled aside for storage and the sumptuous bedclothes buried under a pile of unsorted dresses, the gemmed sleeve that had caught her eye earlier twinkling in the chaos. “No,” she said softly. “Sometimes it breaks anyway.”
“And sometimes, you can put it away so that you can put it back together,” Inara said firmly.
“Not in the same configuration. Entropy alone guarantees that. Still, better to consciously separate than break.” The girl deftly avoided Inara as the Companion moved about the table, wandering about the room at a much graver pace than she had entered it. “We might fit somewhere else.” The large doe-brown eyes belied her statement, examining the half-packed shuttle accusingly.
“You fit in with Serenity, River. We may not all be smuggling con-men like Mal, but both of us have found our places on this ship.” Inara’s lips twisted, her smile somewhat forced. “When we need to, we’ll find our places out there, too.”
“You need to do so now.” River nodded, understanding. “Just don’t find a place too far away. Captain’s too quiet without you.”
“I’m sure you’ll give him something to fuss about.” Her smile returned as she accompanied her guest to the door.
“Probably will,” River acknowledged. “But wherever you go, take a bit of Serenity with you.”