Serenity Valley.
Everyone was off in their own corners of the ship as Wash started to approach the atmosphere around 60 miles above the Serenity Valley memorial's principal landing docks. Mal almost hopes that at least some of them are heading off toward Milliways at the moment, but he knows not to hope for everybody to do so.
And every name’s a father or a husband ( Read more... )
And every name’s a father or a husband ( Read more... )
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"Yup, Orbin was a special sort o' creature." A sidelong look to River. "I ever tell you the lip ferret story?"
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River does not think mustelids should be mentioned in close connection with anyone's facial features.
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"...And that's how I ended up in lockdown for a week for insubordination."
Whatever smile he'd collected on his face drops immediately when his eyes refocus on River.
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She was listening to Mal, all the same; that's clear in the tiny echoing smile at parts, at the way her fingers jerk and her shoulders flinch beneath heavy brown fabric at that last sentence. But most of her attention is focused on the docent (storklike, discreetly tattooed, equipped with thin glasses and a handful of explanatory brochures) and the small tour group she has just led into the memorial.
She's just watching them, with a level cool gaze. Sidelong. Just watching.
This room is hushed, silent and hallowed: cool stone, dead faces, and innumerable names. Some members of the group is looking carefully away from the two brown-coated figures; others are staring back.
River -- motionless, slim and straight-backed and much too young to have fought in this brown coat of hers -- doesn't look away. Her gaze is steady, and dark-eyed, and unsettlingly direct.
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One of the girls breaks away from the group, making her way closer to where Mal and River are standing; probably angling for the scrolling statistics in bold print at the bottom of a display. Every reluctant history student's nightmare, statistics.
Maria reaches out for the young girl's shoulder even though she knows that's a big no-no working here - too many jumpy people.
Within earshot of Mal and River both, in a conversational tone that rings too loudly here: "What? I just need to check something for homework."
Maria's eyes dart up quickly, eye contact with Mal more so than River. "Sorry to've bothered, sir."
The rest of the tour group looks confused; the chaperone looks like he wants to hide, or give out demerits.
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A mild headtilt of acknowledgement is all Mal can pull off at Maria's apology, and he looks again at the presentation for his old platoon. His mouth draws taut, holding a comment or thought in check. Stepping backwards, he extends an arm outward in an admittedly artifical bow, gesturing to River toward the door.
This...collection, is not why he came here.
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One slow step backward, and another. She's looking at the wall again, now, at the tidy array of faces. Her hand rises to her chest, brushing lightly over her cotton shirt, and then taps three times. High on the chest; right under her collarbone, halfway between sternum and throat. It's no salute of this world, maybe not quite a salute of any world, but her face is sober as she does it.
And then she turns away.
"Ain't the way of it," she says softly to the girl casting Maria a sullen look. The girl glances at River, some of her mingled confusion and embarassment fading into surprise, and River's face eases fractionally. Almost gently, "Time to put the pen down."
Her eyes shift back to Mal. And she turns towards him, following towards the door without looking back.
She's still between the captain and the tour group, as she has been since they arrived.
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Mal glances at River on his periphery, "Ready to move on, lil' albatross?"
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"Through the clouds," she says quietly, to the blue bowl of the sky. The only wisps of clouds are tatters at the edge of the horizon.
It's only a small shift to look up at Mal's face.
"There's a path."
Charred stone crunches underfoot as Mal steps away from the building, and River follows. Five hundred thousand died here, and their angels never came; everywhere is sun, and silence, and the sound of two pairs of boots on laser-seared rock.
The air is very clean, and the sunlight is molten gold.
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After a moment, she is able to move and crosses to the list of names engraved in the wall. She reaches up and traces a few of the names with her fingertips.
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It's so...flat. Like a kid's science project.
Mal continues to stare.
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He moves away from the science project toward Inara, still running his eyes over the presentations when he lightens the tone in his voice artificially for the woman beside him.
"Never was too interested in battle-strategizing on paper."
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"Really? I've never noticed that." She gives him a small smile.
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(Sir, do you really mean to turn our home into an abomination so we can make a suicidal attempt at passing through Reaver space?)
(I mean to live --- )
A memory flashes across Mal's mind, and the lightness of tone disappears.
"So many," he observes.
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