Firefly Fic: THE SORROW OF YOUR SHADOW
Mal/Inara, PG, Post-BDM; 785 words
Yeah, it's ANOTHER one of those damn Richard II, Act IV pastiches.
Inara flirted with the idea of returning to the Training House, but, after the depredations of the Operative, she found that she was not welcome. She made a few inquiries about resuming her work as a free-lance Companion. To no real surprise, Inara discovered that those who can afford a Companion's services tend to be rather conservative in their politics. At the least, they generally admire Order over Chaos, and find "notoriety" about the least attractive characteristic a Companion could have.
Inara could never bring herself to discuss this honestly with Mal. She was unable to give him an accurate account of what-or how little-she sacrificed by staying with him. She job's-comforted herself with the observation of how well Simon had settled into a life of petty crime.
If she had to surrender the name of Companion, she was content. Even if she couldn't call herself Inara Reynolds, she could call herself Inara Serra. She sold her jewelry (all except for some strands of beads that Kaylee carved for her). She traded her figured goblets for dishes of wood (they warped in the dishwasher, but they didn't break when River tried a new aerial maneuver). Inara scissored off the old heavy waves, so her hair was shorter now. Her skin shone bare, the balms washed off. If she ever tried to use the last drops in the jar, she couldn't afford to buy their replacements. She sat down on the catwalk. {{I'm nothing, now}} she thought.
"'Nara?" Mal called. "C'mon down to the Cargo Bay."
{{Down to the Cargo Bay}} she thought. {{Where there are horseshoes, and sometimes cattle.}}
He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the part in her hair. {{He melts me}} she thought. For a moment, she resented his being that much taller. Inara had worked for her living since she was twelve years old. The trainees who couldn't pay the Apprentice Premium worked for the others: helping the cooks in the kitchen, grinding the pigments for their cosmetics, sweeping the mats. Before Miranda, Inara paid rent and put protein on Mal's table. She was frightened by this reversal in their relationship.
Inara gestured with both hands, one and then the other up, and then down-manipulating the Chi ball, or showing two buckets emptying into one another. "Mal, I feel…I feel like before, we always managed to fight to some equilibrium. And now, I'm stuck at the bottom of the well. Dependent on you to pull me up."
"Oh, 'Nara," he said. "That's the way it oughta be. Me bein' strong, to take care of you. Me to do the worryin', stead of you."
"Your care is gain of care, by new care won," she said. "What are you-what are we smuggling?"
"Musical boxes," Mal said, flipping open the lid of a carton. The boxes were about a hand-span in size, covered with small squares of mirror. Inara leaned over the packed carton (about the size of a coffin, or a cryogenic unit). Her hair swung down, and she saw her face fractured into shards. {{Not a bad trade}} she thought. {{A million bits of my face, and no frowns or wrinkles. Shiny. A brittle glory.}} "So that's it?" she asked Mal. "The face that kept ten thousand men and dazzled their eyes like the sun?"
"They're gone now," Mal said, and she had to agree. "You're mine now. All mine. And you'll be beautiful as long as you're mine."
{{And that}} Inara thought {{Is the knifeblade of his words, cleaving threat and promise.}} "I don't want to be yours," she said. "I want to be free."
"That's a mighty hard thing to be, in wartime."
"And when does the war end?"
"It mostly doesn't, Inara. This time it came to me, and once I put my hand to the work, I couldn't turn back. And I took you with me. You sayin' I dragged you with me?"
"No," she said. "I don't know. Maybe." She picked up a box and her face dissolved again. She felt the box begin to slip, and to cover the deficiency in grace, and as a compromise with throwing it at Mal, she threw the box at a stack of cartons covered by a tarpaulin. "It goes fast, Mal," she said. "That's how quickly my sorrow has destroyed my face."
"That your training talkin'? Your dramatic training? The shadow of your sorrow has destroyed the shadow of your face. You wanna go home to Sihnon?" he said. "Go ahead. Do it. You can. Sihnon's still there."
Inara picked her way to him, through the shards of glass. "This is the only home we have, now."
Yeah, it's ANOTHER one of those damn Richard II, Act IV pastiches.
Inara flirted with the idea of returning to the Training House, but, after the depredations of the Operative, she found that she was not welcome. She made a few inquiries about resuming her work as a free-lance Companion. To no real surprise, Inara discovered that those who can afford a Companion's services tend to be rather conservative in their politics. At the least, they generally admire Order over Chaos, and find "notoriety" about the least attractive characteristic a Companion could have.
Inara could never bring herself to discuss this honestly with Mal. She was unable to give him an accurate account of what-or how little-she sacrificed by staying with him. She job's-comforted herself with the observation of how well Simon had settled into a life of petty crime.
If she had to surrender the name of Companion, she was content. Even if she couldn't call herself Inara Reynolds, she could call herself Inara Serra. She sold her jewelry (all except for some strands of beads that Kaylee carved for her). She traded her figured goblets for dishes of wood (they warped in the dishwasher, but they didn't break when River tried a new aerial maneuver). Inara scissored off the old heavy waves, so her hair was shorter now. Her skin shone bare, the balms washed off. If she ever tried to use the last drops in the jar, she couldn't afford to buy their replacements. She sat down on the catwalk. {{I'm nothing, now}} she thought.
"'Nara?" Mal called. "C'mon down to the Cargo Bay."
{{Down to the Cargo Bay}} she thought. {{Where there are horseshoes, and sometimes cattle.}}
He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the part in her hair. {{He melts me}} she thought. For a moment, she resented his being that much taller. Inara had worked for her living since she was twelve years old. The trainees who couldn't pay the Apprentice Premium worked for the others: helping the cooks in the kitchen, grinding the pigments for their cosmetics, sweeping the mats. Before Miranda, Inara paid rent and put protein on Mal's table. She was frightened by this reversal in their relationship.
Inara gestured with both hands, one and then the other up, and then down-manipulating the Chi ball, or showing two buckets emptying into one another. "Mal, I feel…I feel like before, we always managed to fight to some equilibrium. And now, I'm stuck at the bottom of the well. Dependent on you to pull me up."
"Oh, 'Nara," he said. "That's the way it oughta be. Me bein' strong, to take care of you. Me to do the worryin', stead of you."
"Your care is gain of care, by new care won," she said. "What are you-what are we smuggling?"
"Musical boxes," Mal said, flipping open the lid of a carton. The boxes were about a hand-span in size, covered with small squares of mirror. Inara leaned over the packed carton (about the size of a coffin, or a cryogenic unit). Her hair swung down, and she saw her face fractured into shards. {{Not a bad trade}} she thought. {{A million bits of my face, and no frowns or wrinkles. Shiny. A brittle glory.}} "So that's it?" she asked Mal. "The face that kept ten thousand men and dazzled their eyes like the sun?"
"They're gone now," Mal said, and she had to agree. "You're mine now. All mine. And you'll be beautiful as long as you're mine."
{{And that}} Inara thought {{Is the knifeblade of his words, cleaving threat and promise.}} "I don't want to be yours," she said. "I want to be free."
"That's a mighty hard thing to be, in wartime."
"And when does the war end?"
"It mostly doesn't, Inara. This time it came to me, and once I put my hand to the work, I couldn't turn back. And I took you with me. You sayin' I dragged you with me?"
"No," she said. "I don't know. Maybe." She picked up a box and her face dissolved again. She felt the box begin to slip, and to cover the deficiency in grace, and as a compromise with throwing it at Mal, she threw the box at a stack of cartons covered by a tarpaulin. "It goes fast, Mal," she said. "That's how quickly my sorrow has destroyed my face."
"That your training talkin'? Your dramatic training? The shadow of your sorrow has destroyed the shadow of your face. You wanna go home to Sihnon?" he said. "Go ahead. Do it. You can. Sihnon's still there."
Inara picked her way to him, through the shards of glass. "This is the only home we have, now."