Writer's Commentary - Cold Knowledge
Oct. 17th, 2006 06:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
browncoat2x2Writer’s Commentary for Cold Knowledge
by 2x2
Written in response to goldy_dollar’s journal prompt: Inara stumbles across the capture-thingy Mal was looking at in the BDM. How did she get it? What happens next?
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1387
I think that this is my favourite story, of all the ones I’ve written, prompts or otherwise. I think it has such a tragic beauty to it all, and it breaks my heart every time I read it. That really makes it special for me, that it has that much power to make the reader feel so much. I’m very proud of this one. I almost didn’t want to do a commentary for this - I didn’t really want to try to explain the emotion, because it’s all so personal, really. But ultimately, I did, accepting that all I can do is show my reasons for what I did and felt, which is what it’s all about anyway, isn’t it? Plus, how could I say no to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
goldy_dollar? *G*
Inara stood at the top of the cold stone steps of the Training House somberly, her hands held numbly at her sides as she watched the woman climb steadily towards her. It had been years since the Companion had laid eyes on this particular woman, and her presence here now, she knew, could mean only one thing.
One of my most favourite images from Serenity is that shot of Inara at the top of the stone stairs at the Training House as the Operative comes up to her. It’s beautiful, with the lush green mountains, and the decadent furnishings, and Inara in her impeccable dress, but there’s still that over-laying sadness to me, that I always feel around Inara, and then the ‘not right-ness’ of the Operative’s demeanor, and Inara’s ‘oh shit’ reaction bring that sense of danger, trouble… it’s a wonderful scene, encompasses so much, and it seemed only natural to put us in this place again for the story I was about to tell.
She fought the panic she felt rising in her, threatening to overwhelm years of honed skill. She wanted to delay this meeting, more than anything, but the hour had come and there was no time left.
Because she knows what this means… and now we know for sure it isn’t good.
All too soon the woman reached the last of the steps and stood before Inara. Holding a small wooden box between her hands, she regarded the Companion with eyes that spoke of a life the other woman could only imagine. The years had added lines of care and worry to her face; to the woman, Inara looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen her.
…to the woman, Inara looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen her… an allusion to all the speculation about Immortal Inara?? Probably. That’s not to say I subscribe to that theory, but I’ve allowed for the possibility. Also, because Inara has a certain timelessness, or agelessness to her; she takes care of her appearance, and would do everything to maintain that, so she probably would look exactly the same. Regardless, this paragraph is mainly to set up that several years have past, and that times probably haven’t been as good for this woman as they have for Inara - eyes that spoke of a life the other woman could only imagine.
“Inara,” she said, her voice rougher than the Companion remembered, edgier.
“Zoe,” she replied, not able to mask the emotion in her voice completely.
“’Spect you know why I’m here,” Zoe said with a nod.
Inara swallowed, blinking at the threat of moisture she felt in her eyes as her chest tightened. “Yes,” she said softly.
Zoe drew in a deep breath and then stepped forward, holding the box out for Inara. “’Some things for you, thought you might like to have…”
Inara took the box from the woman’s outstretched hands, terrified and full of longing at the same time to learn what was inside. It felt heavier than she expected, yet far too light to adequately represent a man’s life. She let her fingers run over the smooth, well-worn edges of the box, worrying a small chip with her thumb. She trembled.
“… Thank-you,” she whispered, unable to lift her eyes from the box for fear of losing control completely. She felt rather than saw the other woman nod.
“He would’ve…” Zoe started, then cleared her throat and drew herself up, fading behind her soldierly exterior in a technique that was all too familiar to Inara. “I can’t stay,” the woman continued. “’Just wanted to drop that off, let you know.”
Inara recognizing the technique Zoe uses, not just because she’s seen the woman use it before, but because it’s the same ‘trick’ she applies herself.
Inara nodded. “I… I appreciate that. Thank-you.”
Zoe nodded back and turned, but halted, looking back as Inara called after her.
“Zoe—“ the Companion said, her eyes finally lifting to the other woman. “… How…” she asked, not wanting but needing to know.
Zoe’s eyes slanted away then. “It was bad,” she said, rough with emotion. “Real bad. ‘Got ambushed and… I couldn’t get to him. I couldn’t get to him an’ he...” she trailed off, her voice cracking.
Inara took a step forward, tears spilling from her eyes. “Zoe…”
The other woman shook her head, gathering her control again and gave Inara one last, sorrow filled stare, then turned and headed down the stairs briskly without looking back.
I really, really, really love that it’s Zoe that comes to tell Inara. These two women, both so strong and independent, both of their lives touched by the same man, both loving him in their way, both different for having known him. Sharing grief without really letting any of it out. They’re so similar that way, they don’t let their emotions show, they both have a façade they keep all that tucked neatly behind.
And Inara needing to know how he died, asking Zoe… this is such a hard thing for Zoe, the guilt that’s there, because she couldn’t get to him… it just breaks my heart. I really feel that Zoe’s so much a shell of her former self now, it’s so sad. And she can’t stay. It’s got nothing to do with anything other than the fact that she can’t stay here or she’ll risk breaking, and if she breaks now… well, it’s not even so much a matter of her not being able to put herself back together… it’s kind of like she knows Inara will help her do that, it’s if she were to break now, she wouldn’t WANT to come back… All she can do is hold and keep going, soldier on, because otherwise she’s nothing but a million fragmented pieces with nothing left to hold them together. Heart wrenching.
Inside her apartments, Inara sat on her bed, the same bed she’d used on Serenity and all these years in between, surrounded by the darkness of the day’s failing light.
Doesn’t really make sense, does it? Darkness of the day’s failing light. I didn’t want a sunset here though, I wasn’t ready for the image of ‘life still going on around her’ here. I wanted the steadily increasing darkness of twilight giving way to night, to reflect her grief, the darkening of her heart, her soul. There’s darkness, because the light is failing.
The box sat before her, unopened; she didn’t want to say good-bye, but the longer she put it off the harder she knew it would become, until it might very well destroy her, if it hadn’t already.
Here’s one of those ambiguous lines that looks like it’s saying something deep and meaningful, but it really isn’t is it? I tend to throw these lines out a lot… abstract ideas that I let the reader interpret to mean whatever they want them to mean. Mostly, it’s to generate a certain feeling, or atmosphere – in this case, this is going to be bad.
Pale and trembling, she slowly lifted the lid, swinging it back on its hinges silently. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent that drifted to her nose from the box’s contents – the deep smoky flavour of the wood itself, the tang of gun oil, bitter taste of gunpowder, the unmistakable aroma of brown leather - the essence of him.
Ah, smell…I find it funny that, while I’m a huge Inara fan, and so many people associate scent and smells with Inara, I really don’t. Smell for me is all about Mal. That pheromone charged scent of male sweat (the good kind) and there’d be gun oil, because we know he takes care of his guns, but most of all, that wonderful smell of leather that smells like nothing else… mmmmm Mal.
She let out a slow breath and opened her eyes, reaching into the box to pull out his pistol from where it rested on top of everything else. Inara was surprised to see it in the box; of all his things she’d thought perhaps Zoe would want it and she wondered if maybe it had been a last minute addition. She held it gently in both her hands, feeling the weight of it, ran her fingers over the smooth sandlewood grips that had been polished under his hand’s grasp a thousand times. He had killed men with this gun, saved the lives of his crew. Despite it’s age and years of use, it was clean and well oiled, cared for, and she had an inkling of the quiet ritual looking after it would become for her in the time ahead as she placed it next to the box reverently.
Sandlewood grips – my little homage to The Gunslinger novels by Stephen King. Roland’s great pistols had sandlewood grips, polished under his hand’s grasp… *G* The gun was the last thing I decided was going to be in the box, but I had decided that the coat couldn’t be in there because, it was too big for one thing, and they would have buried him in it. So I wanted something that was just as personal, and it had to be the pistol. It conjures, for me, the image of the dead soldier’s possessions being returned to his family, his young wife or his mother, and I used that again later on, with the ident tags.
I also love the idea of Inara caring for the pistol over the years, the quiet ritual… I see ritual being a large part of Inara’s life, in her training, in her spirituality… and wouldn’t it be such an object of speculation amongst the new young trainees, the antique pistol, so out of place in Mistress Inara’s chambers, that she oiled and cared for without fail, year after year… tragically romantic, isn’t it *G*
She smiled faintly as her fingers encountered the cotton softness of one of his shirts, and she pulled it out, letting it unfold as she held it by the shoulders and brought it to her nose, burying her face in the collar as she smelled him. Oh, years of separation had done nothing to dull the effect his smell had on her, and she drank it in, letting the scent envelope her in the memory of him. After several long moments she laid the shirt beside his gun, smoothing the fabric that once rested against his chest, lingering over the place that had covered the heart she’d never dared allow herself to touch.
Anyone who’s liked a guy and managed to get their hands on a piece of their clothing knows why I had to put the shirt in there. It’s the smell thing all over again… I deliberately left out which shirt it was, which colour, because we all have our favourite one that Mal wears, and it’s much more powerful if the shirt the reader imagines is their favourite one, don’t you think?
And I just love the image of the last line, and the way I worded it.
Drawing in a deep breath, she wiped at the tears on her cheeks, swallowing back the doubts she had thought long since conquered.
I like this because I didn’t have to describe the fact that she was crying, the fact that she’s wiping tears from her cheeks paints that image for us. And all those old doubts are creeping back up…
Next she picked out a triangular shaped patch and two silver ident tags. Embroidered with the Independent Army’s flag, the patch was dirty and stained with war, the edges worn and long since tattered. His name, still clearly engraved on the tags, sent a sharp pang piercing through her heart. Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds. Face crumbling, she traced the letters, her tears blurring the words as this, more than anything, made it real, solidified the fact that he was truly gone.
It took me a while to decide on what order to place the things in the box. I knew from the start that the capture would be the last thing, but what would break her first? I chose the ident tags, even though they held no real personal significance for Inara, for the simple fact that ident tags would be what’s taken from the body and sent on as verification of death. Like the dreaded letter from the military arriving to inform the family of their son’s death like you read about from World War I and II, receiving that dog tag couldn’t mean anything else.
You lost him a long time ago, she tried to tell herself, appalled to discover there was still hope carried within her after all these years, love she’d been unable to eradicate from her soul. She’d left him for fear of never being able to, and fooled herself into thinking she’d gotten away, but he had always been there, deep inside, her secret kept even from herself. Her head told her she’d been right to leave, because here she was, alone, just as she knew she ultimately would be, but her heart cried out for all the years in between she could have been with him.
Inara is so good at hiding things, I found it entirely plausible that she could hide this from herself, trick herself into thinking she was over him, didn’t love him, had made the right decision, all the while carrying the truth deep within herself… what a tragic, bitter discovery to make now…
Weeping, she took the last thing from the box, a slim rectangular capture, the paint around its edges chipped, the characters on the playback button faded away under countless views. Fingers shaking, she activated the stored image, her breath leaving her in stunned anguish as her own image filled the screen.
Gah! Image and image in the same paragraph! What was I thinking? *G* Here’sgoldy_dollar’s prompt, Inara finding the capture of herself that Mal had. I loved writing the details about its condition, especially the characters worn off the play button, all of it implying how many times Mal must have watched her image, played it over and over and over.
Her voice echoed around the room, sounding strange and harsh to her ears, a strangled moan escaping her lips as she realized what this was, what this meant.
“That man doesn’t know what he wants.”
“Oh God, Mal,” she cried, the thought that he had kept this capture of her, for years, even after she’d left him a second time… that all she had left him with was an image of her lying to Kaylee… hurting him every time he watched, but still watching, still watching because… oh God, because it was all he had of her… because he loved her, even after all this time, he had still loved her!
And the horrifying realization of what she’s truly lost, and what leaving had done and… ohhh, it just tears my heart out every time I read this section.
Numb with anguish, she slid from the bed, her knees striking the floor as she clutched the capture desperately, shaking as she begged for this all to be a mistake.
“Please. Oh, please, Mal. Please,” she cried, her face pressed into the bed, body wracked with sobs. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Weeping in grief-stricken pain, she pulled the blanket and sheets from her bed, clutching them to her, the capture pressed against her breast, filling the emptiness of her arms, hiding her face in their depths as the box and the contents laid beside it fell to the floor.
I’m not sure if the image works or not, but I needed her holding more than just herself here, I needed her trying to fill her arms that would never be filled by who she truly needed them to be filled by.
“Oh, Mal, “ she wept, “Forgive me. I love you… I love you,” she whispered into the darkness, heart shattered by regret and the cold knowledge that there was no one there anymore who could answer.
And the admission, too late! And the regret… oh the pain.
by 2x2
Written in response to goldy_dollar’s journal prompt: Inara stumbles across the capture-thingy Mal was looking at in the BDM. How did she get it? What happens next?
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1387
I think that this is my favourite story, of all the ones I’ve written, prompts or otherwise. I think it has such a tragic beauty to it all, and it breaks my heart every time I read it. That really makes it special for me, that it has that much power to make the reader feel so much. I’m very proud of this one. I almost didn’t want to do a commentary for this - I didn’t really want to try to explain the emotion, because it’s all so personal, really. But ultimately, I did, accepting that all I can do is show my reasons for what I did and felt, which is what it’s all about anyway, isn’t it? Plus, how could I say no to
goldy_dollar? *G*Inara stood at the top of the cold stone steps of the Training House somberly, her hands held numbly at her sides as she watched the woman climb steadily towards her. It had been years since the Companion had laid eyes on this particular woman, and her presence here now, she knew, could mean only one thing.
One of my most favourite images from Serenity is that shot of Inara at the top of the stone stairs at the Training House as the Operative comes up to her. It’s beautiful, with the lush green mountains, and the decadent furnishings, and Inara in her impeccable dress, but there’s still that over-laying sadness to me, that I always feel around Inara, and then the ‘not right-ness’ of the Operative’s demeanor, and Inara’s ‘oh shit’ reaction bring that sense of danger, trouble… it’s a wonderful scene, encompasses so much, and it seemed only natural to put us in this place again for the story I was about to tell.
She fought the panic she felt rising in her, threatening to overwhelm years of honed skill. She wanted to delay this meeting, more than anything, but the hour had come and there was no time left.
Because she knows what this means… and now we know for sure it isn’t good.
All too soon the woman reached the last of the steps and stood before Inara. Holding a small wooden box between her hands, she regarded the Companion with eyes that spoke of a life the other woman could only imagine. The years had added lines of care and worry to her face; to the woman, Inara looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen her.
…to the woman, Inara looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen her… an allusion to all the speculation about Immortal Inara?? Probably. That’s not to say I subscribe to that theory, but I’ve allowed for the possibility. Also, because Inara has a certain timelessness, or agelessness to her; she takes care of her appearance, and would do everything to maintain that, so she probably would look exactly the same. Regardless, this paragraph is mainly to set up that several years have past, and that times probably haven’t been as good for this woman as they have for Inara - eyes that spoke of a life the other woman could only imagine.
“Inara,” she said, her voice rougher than the Companion remembered, edgier.
“Zoe,” she replied, not able to mask the emotion in her voice completely.
“’Spect you know why I’m here,” Zoe said with a nod.
Inara swallowed, blinking at the threat of moisture she felt in her eyes as her chest tightened. “Yes,” she said softly.
Zoe drew in a deep breath and then stepped forward, holding the box out for Inara. “’Some things for you, thought you might like to have…”
Inara took the box from the woman’s outstretched hands, terrified and full of longing at the same time to learn what was inside. It felt heavier than she expected, yet far too light to adequately represent a man’s life. She let her fingers run over the smooth, well-worn edges of the box, worrying a small chip with her thumb. She trembled.
“… Thank-you,” she whispered, unable to lift her eyes from the box for fear of losing control completely. She felt rather than saw the other woman nod.
“He would’ve…” Zoe started, then cleared her throat and drew herself up, fading behind her soldierly exterior in a technique that was all too familiar to Inara. “I can’t stay,” the woman continued. “’Just wanted to drop that off, let you know.”
Inara recognizing the technique Zoe uses, not just because she’s seen the woman use it before, but because it’s the same ‘trick’ she applies herself.
Inara nodded. “I… I appreciate that. Thank-you.”
Zoe nodded back and turned, but halted, looking back as Inara called after her.
“Zoe—“ the Companion said, her eyes finally lifting to the other woman. “… How…” she asked, not wanting but needing to know.
Zoe’s eyes slanted away then. “It was bad,” she said, rough with emotion. “Real bad. ‘Got ambushed and… I couldn’t get to him. I couldn’t get to him an’ he...” she trailed off, her voice cracking.
Inara took a step forward, tears spilling from her eyes. “Zoe…”
The other woman shook her head, gathering her control again and gave Inara one last, sorrow filled stare, then turned and headed down the stairs briskly without looking back.
I really, really, really love that it’s Zoe that comes to tell Inara. These two women, both so strong and independent, both of their lives touched by the same man, both loving him in their way, both different for having known him. Sharing grief without really letting any of it out. They’re so similar that way, they don’t let their emotions show, they both have a façade they keep all that tucked neatly behind.
And Inara needing to know how he died, asking Zoe… this is such a hard thing for Zoe, the guilt that’s there, because she couldn’t get to him… it just breaks my heart. I really feel that Zoe’s so much a shell of her former self now, it’s so sad. And she can’t stay. It’s got nothing to do with anything other than the fact that she can’t stay here or she’ll risk breaking, and if she breaks now… well, it’s not even so much a matter of her not being able to put herself back together… it’s kind of like she knows Inara will help her do that, it’s if she were to break now, she wouldn’t WANT to come back… All she can do is hold and keep going, soldier on, because otherwise she’s nothing but a million fragmented pieces with nothing left to hold them together. Heart wrenching.
Inside her apartments, Inara sat on her bed, the same bed she’d used on Serenity and all these years in between, surrounded by the darkness of the day’s failing light.
Doesn’t really make sense, does it? Darkness of the day’s failing light. I didn’t want a sunset here though, I wasn’t ready for the image of ‘life still going on around her’ here. I wanted the steadily increasing darkness of twilight giving way to night, to reflect her grief, the darkening of her heart, her soul. There’s darkness, because the light is failing.
The box sat before her, unopened; she didn’t want to say good-bye, but the longer she put it off the harder she knew it would become, until it might very well destroy her, if it hadn’t already.
Here’s one of those ambiguous lines that looks like it’s saying something deep and meaningful, but it really isn’t is it? I tend to throw these lines out a lot… abstract ideas that I let the reader interpret to mean whatever they want them to mean. Mostly, it’s to generate a certain feeling, or atmosphere – in this case, this is going to be bad.
Pale and trembling, she slowly lifted the lid, swinging it back on its hinges silently. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent that drifted to her nose from the box’s contents – the deep smoky flavour of the wood itself, the tang of gun oil, bitter taste of gunpowder, the unmistakable aroma of brown leather - the essence of him.
Ah, smell…I find it funny that, while I’m a huge Inara fan, and so many people associate scent and smells with Inara, I really don’t. Smell for me is all about Mal. That pheromone charged scent of male sweat (the good kind) and there’d be gun oil, because we know he takes care of his guns, but most of all, that wonderful smell of leather that smells like nothing else… mmmmm Mal.
She let out a slow breath and opened her eyes, reaching into the box to pull out his pistol from where it rested on top of everything else. Inara was surprised to see it in the box; of all his things she’d thought perhaps Zoe would want it and she wondered if maybe it had been a last minute addition. She held it gently in both her hands, feeling the weight of it, ran her fingers over the smooth sandlewood grips that had been polished under his hand’s grasp a thousand times. He had killed men with this gun, saved the lives of his crew. Despite it’s age and years of use, it was clean and well oiled, cared for, and she had an inkling of the quiet ritual looking after it would become for her in the time ahead as she placed it next to the box reverently.
Sandlewood grips – my little homage to The Gunslinger novels by Stephen King. Roland’s great pistols had sandlewood grips, polished under his hand’s grasp… *G* The gun was the last thing I decided was going to be in the box, but I had decided that the coat couldn’t be in there because, it was too big for one thing, and they would have buried him in it. So I wanted something that was just as personal, and it had to be the pistol. It conjures, for me, the image of the dead soldier’s possessions being returned to his family, his young wife or his mother, and I used that again later on, with the ident tags.
I also love the idea of Inara caring for the pistol over the years, the quiet ritual… I see ritual being a large part of Inara’s life, in her training, in her spirituality… and wouldn’t it be such an object of speculation amongst the new young trainees, the antique pistol, so out of place in Mistress Inara’s chambers, that she oiled and cared for without fail, year after year… tragically romantic, isn’t it *G*
She smiled faintly as her fingers encountered the cotton softness of one of his shirts, and she pulled it out, letting it unfold as she held it by the shoulders and brought it to her nose, burying her face in the collar as she smelled him. Oh, years of separation had done nothing to dull the effect his smell had on her, and she drank it in, letting the scent envelope her in the memory of him. After several long moments she laid the shirt beside his gun, smoothing the fabric that once rested against his chest, lingering over the place that had covered the heart she’d never dared allow herself to touch.
Anyone who’s liked a guy and managed to get their hands on a piece of their clothing knows why I had to put the shirt in there. It’s the smell thing all over again… I deliberately left out which shirt it was, which colour, because we all have our favourite one that Mal wears, and it’s much more powerful if the shirt the reader imagines is their favourite one, don’t you think?
And I just love the image of the last line, and the way I worded it.
Drawing in a deep breath, she wiped at the tears on her cheeks, swallowing back the doubts she had thought long since conquered.
I like this because I didn’t have to describe the fact that she was crying, the fact that she’s wiping tears from her cheeks paints that image for us. And all those old doubts are creeping back up…
Next she picked out a triangular shaped patch and two silver ident tags. Embroidered with the Independent Army’s flag, the patch was dirty and stained with war, the edges worn and long since tattered. His name, still clearly engraved on the tags, sent a sharp pang piercing through her heart. Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds. Face crumbling, she traced the letters, her tears blurring the words as this, more than anything, made it real, solidified the fact that he was truly gone.
It took me a while to decide on what order to place the things in the box. I knew from the start that the capture would be the last thing, but what would break her first? I chose the ident tags, even though they held no real personal significance for Inara, for the simple fact that ident tags would be what’s taken from the body and sent on as verification of death. Like the dreaded letter from the military arriving to inform the family of their son’s death like you read about from World War I and II, receiving that dog tag couldn’t mean anything else.
You lost him a long time ago, she tried to tell herself, appalled to discover there was still hope carried within her after all these years, love she’d been unable to eradicate from her soul. She’d left him for fear of never being able to, and fooled herself into thinking she’d gotten away, but he had always been there, deep inside, her secret kept even from herself. Her head told her she’d been right to leave, because here she was, alone, just as she knew she ultimately would be, but her heart cried out for all the years in between she could have been with him.
Inara is so good at hiding things, I found it entirely plausible that she could hide this from herself, trick herself into thinking she was over him, didn’t love him, had made the right decision, all the while carrying the truth deep within herself… what a tragic, bitter discovery to make now…
Weeping, she took the last thing from the box, a slim rectangular capture, the paint around its edges chipped, the characters on the playback button faded away under countless views. Fingers shaking, she activated the stored image, her breath leaving her in stunned anguish as her own image filled the screen.
Gah! Image and image in the same paragraph! What was I thinking? *G* Here’s
goldy_dollar’s prompt, Inara finding the capture of herself that Mal had. I loved writing the details about its condition, especially the characters worn off the play button, all of it implying how many times Mal must have watched her image, played it over and over and over.Her voice echoed around the room, sounding strange and harsh to her ears, a strangled moan escaping her lips as she realized what this was, what this meant.
“That man doesn’t know what he wants.”
“Oh God, Mal,” she cried, the thought that he had kept this capture of her, for years, even after she’d left him a second time… that all she had left him with was an image of her lying to Kaylee… hurting him every time he watched, but still watching, still watching because… oh God, because it was all he had of her… because he loved her, even after all this time, he had still loved her!
And the horrifying realization of what she’s truly lost, and what leaving had done and… ohhh, it just tears my heart out every time I read this section.
Numb with anguish, she slid from the bed, her knees striking the floor as she clutched the capture desperately, shaking as she begged for this all to be a mistake.
“Please. Oh, please, Mal. Please,” she cried, her face pressed into the bed, body wracked with sobs. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Weeping in grief-stricken pain, she pulled the blanket and sheets from her bed, clutching them to her, the capture pressed against her breast, filling the emptiness of her arms, hiding her face in their depths as the box and the contents laid beside it fell to the floor.
I’m not sure if the image works or not, but I needed her holding more than just herself here, I needed her trying to fill her arms that would never be filled by who she truly needed them to be filled by.
“Oh, Mal, “ she wept, “Forgive me. I love you… I love you,” she whispered into the darkness, heart shattered by regret and the cold knowledge that there was no one there anymore who could answer.
And the admission, too late! And the regret… oh the pain.
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no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:38 pm (UTC)Smell for me is all about Mal. That pheromone charged scent of male sweat (the good kind) and there’d be gun oil, because we know he takes care of his guns, but most of all, that wonderful smell of leather that smells like nothing else… mmmmm Mal.
Heeeeeeh. That's so such an excellent point. And stated in such an amusing way too. *g*
I'll admit to being one of those people who does associated Inara with smell. She strikes me as someone that would stand out on Serenity, looking all shiny and pretty and smelling really good.
But your argument for Mal is so well stated.
Thank you so much for doing this! I read your post from earlier (though it has since seemed to have disapeared?), and I want to make sure you know that I adore you, and that I love reading your commentaries, and if you ever stop writing, I'll hussle over to Ontario and chain you to something... like your computer, for instance.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:52 pm (UTC)Well, thank-you :o)
I guess it's true, really, I *do* love them a great deal, and yes, I try to feel it with them. I can't write the emotion if I don't feel it, it just doesn't work for me. I have to have an inkling of what they're going through in order to write it, and I have a very good imagination that way, which can be a good thing as well as a bad thing. I do sometimes actually affect my mood when I spend too much time writing sad things, or angry things. I have to be careful and make sure the emotions I'm feeling at the end of the day are really mine, and not Mal and Inara's that then get taken out on my poor, unsuspecting hubby *GRIN*
I'll admit to being one of those people who does associated Inara with smell. She strikes me as someone that would stand out on Serenity, looking all shiny and pretty and smelling really good.
Oh, I don't mean to say that Inara doesn't likely have a wonderful smell too (Morena certainly did *G*) just, the Mal Smell is just so obvious and there, I mean, we KNOW he's got to smell like that coat, whereas we can guess Inara smells like
anythingbutnightbloomingjasminewell, anything...Thank you so much for doing this! I read your post from earlier (though it has since seemed to have disapeared?), and I want to make sure you know that I adore you, and that I love reading your commentaries, and if you ever stop writing, I'll hussle over to Ontario and chain you to something... like your computer, for instance.
Oy *hangs head in embarrassment* I had hoped most folk hadn't actually seen that *cringes* The pityparty is over, worry not, and I know you adore me (really, how could you not *GRIN*) and I adore you just as much, my darlin' goldy!! I'm not about to stop writin'... I just had a blue day, but everything is much happier now *huggles* Thanks :o)
And also, could I *be* anymore chained to my computer? This is all I do, darlin' *G*
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Date: 2006-10-17 11:46 pm (UTC)You should continue this. Y'know, have Mal being not-dead-anymore or it having been a false alarm. Or not. It's pretty perfect now! =)
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Date: 2006-10-18 12:18 am (UTC)*blush* why, thank you so much! I don't think I could receive a lovelier comment!
You should continue this. Y'know, have Mal being not-dead-anymore or it having been a false alarm. Or not. It's pretty perfect now! =)
Funny you should mention that *G*
When I originally posted this story, 'certain people' *refrains from naming names* huddled in the corner and cried until I gave them a Happy Ending. Feel free to take a look if you like *G*
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Date: 2006-10-18 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 04:37 am (UTC)Made me snortle a bit. Much needed after this piece of sniff.
Her voice echoed around the room, sounding strange and harsh to her ears, a strangled moan escaping her lips as she realized what this was, what this meant.
Okay, crying again. This is the line that gets me. What this meant...GAH! So gorram sad! Somehow in all of this, all the angst and Inara's relazation, the idea of Mal's death really hits me here. It's really painful to think of him buried in his coat. The emotion extends beyond her. It conjers all kind of visuals that you don't put there. Then again as I am Mal obsessed, I imagine I try to put myself in Inara's shoes now and again. This time, those shoes happened to pinch...a lot!
Well, I'm drained for the evening. ::smile:: Thanks for sharing. Always glad for the insight.
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Date: 2006-10-18 03:28 pm (UTC)People have so many mixed feelings about this story, I love it *G*
And the happy ending is by no means 'official canon' as far as my story goes... it's just a delusion *G* but it's good to know it was snortle worth *G*
As for that line... yeah. It hurts me too... I love it so much *G* And I LOVE everything you see oustide of the fic, that's just marvellous! Makes everything all that more impactful, heee!
And I have no idea what you mean about putting yourself in Inara's shoes, nope, none at all ;o>
Sorry to drain your energy *G* But I'm glad you enjoyed my comments! Thank-you!