Fic: Brave and Noble Man (Firefly AU, PG)
Title: Brave and Noble Man
Author: sheryden
Fandoms: Firefly
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 607
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. I'm just having fun with them.
Summary: Napoleonic Europe AU. Mal used to be a brave and noble man.
Author's Notes: This was written for au_bingo for the prompt "Historical: Napoleonic Europe.”
At one point in his life-not very long ago, in fact-Malcolm Reynolds would have considered himself to be a noble and courageous man. He had been raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, and he had grown to be a person who had the backbone to live by those morals. Several months ago, he had picked up arms against the French army not out of desperation or even out of a sense of duty. He had done it out of a brazen need to prove himself and to demonstrate to Napoleon and his allies that their brand of dominance could and would be stopped by those with the iron will to oppose them.
But that had been months ago, and after almost a year of bitter fighting, after almost a year of watching young, brave men drop to their knees in agony and breath their final breaths, Mal had started to believe that bravery and nobility were misplaced attributes in a time of war. He had found himself first witnessing and then later committing atrocities that made his stomach turn inside out and burn with shame.
In a world where right and wrong seemed to be casualties of war, the good and noble man that Malcolm Reynolds had once believed himself to be was an increasingly distant memory.
Night was falling on the little tavern where of Mal and his men had stopped to rest and to loot the area for supplies. While his men busied themselves rooting through the dead bodies of French soldiers for weapons, ammunition, and anything else they might be able to find a use for, Mal decided he needed a drink to calm what was left of his nerves.
He pushed open the door to the little tavern and wandered inside, careful to scan the area for any stragglers his men might have missed during their perfunctory walkthrough earlier. The room was eerily deserted, and the clomp and shuffle of Mal’s boots on the worn floor were the only sounds to be heard.
Mal walked around the bar and helped himself to the meager supply of liquor that still remained in the abandoned tavern. As was pouring himself a drink, his second-in-command, Hoban Washburne-called “Wash” by those close to him-walked into the room.
“Drowning your sorrows, Mal?”
“That I am. Would you care to join me?”
Wash nodded and slipped up to the bar, grasping his hand around the glass of amber liquid Mal slid his way. They drank in silence for a moment, then Wash said, “We’ll need to leave soon, lest the French come upon us.”
“Perhaps that would be better,” Mal said. “It might not put an end to the war, but it would certainly end for us.”
“That may be well for you, Mal, but I do not have a death wish. I have a wife and children back home in London.”
“Do you think you will be able to look your wife in the eye again? After all you’ve seen and done?”
“She knows she married a soldier. There are no illusions between us.”
Mal gulped down his drink. “Then you are a lucky man.”
Wash put a hand on Mal’s shoulder. “This war will be over soon, Mal. We will prevail against the French, and Europe will be free again.”
Slamming the glass down on the bar, Mal ran his hand through his hair. “But will any of us be able to live with what we’ve become to achieve that freedom?” With a breath, Mal smoothed out the jacket of his uniform and walked out to check on the men.
Author: sheryden
Fandoms: Firefly
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 607
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. I'm just having fun with them.
Summary: Napoleonic Europe AU. Mal used to be a brave and noble man.
Author's Notes: This was written for au_bingo for the prompt "Historical: Napoleonic Europe.”
At one point in his life-not very long ago, in fact-Malcolm Reynolds would have considered himself to be a noble and courageous man. He had been raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, and he had grown to be a person who had the backbone to live by those morals. Several months ago, he had picked up arms against the French army not out of desperation or even out of a sense of duty. He had done it out of a brazen need to prove himself and to demonstrate to Napoleon and his allies that their brand of dominance could and would be stopped by those with the iron will to oppose them.
But that had been months ago, and after almost a year of bitter fighting, after almost a year of watching young, brave men drop to their knees in agony and breath their final breaths, Mal had started to believe that bravery and nobility were misplaced attributes in a time of war. He had found himself first witnessing and then later committing atrocities that made his stomach turn inside out and burn with shame.
In a world where right and wrong seemed to be casualties of war, the good and noble man that Malcolm Reynolds had once believed himself to be was an increasingly distant memory.
Night was falling on the little tavern where of Mal and his men had stopped to rest and to loot the area for supplies. While his men busied themselves rooting through the dead bodies of French soldiers for weapons, ammunition, and anything else they might be able to find a use for, Mal decided he needed a drink to calm what was left of his nerves.
He pushed open the door to the little tavern and wandered inside, careful to scan the area for any stragglers his men might have missed during their perfunctory walkthrough earlier. The room was eerily deserted, and the clomp and shuffle of Mal’s boots on the worn floor were the only sounds to be heard.
Mal walked around the bar and helped himself to the meager supply of liquor that still remained in the abandoned tavern. As was pouring himself a drink, his second-in-command, Hoban Washburne-called “Wash” by those close to him-walked into the room.
“Drowning your sorrows, Mal?”
“That I am. Would you care to join me?”
Wash nodded and slipped up to the bar, grasping his hand around the glass of amber liquid Mal slid his way. They drank in silence for a moment, then Wash said, “We’ll need to leave soon, lest the French come upon us.”
“Perhaps that would be better,” Mal said. “It might not put an end to the war, but it would certainly end for us.”
“That may be well for you, Mal, but I do not have a death wish. I have a wife and children back home in London.”
“Do you think you will be able to look your wife in the eye again? After all you’ve seen and done?”
“She knows she married a soldier. There are no illusions between us.”
Mal gulped down his drink. “Then you are a lucky man.”
Wash put a hand on Mal’s shoulder. “This war will be over soon, Mal. We will prevail against the French, and Europe will be free again.”
Slamming the glass down on the bar, Mal ran his hand through his hair. “But will any of us be able to live with what we’ve become to achieve that freedom?” With a breath, Mal smoothed out the jacket of his uniform and walked out to check on the men.