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Sep. 15th, 2006 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flybywashThey call it the ghost months.
It used to keep time with the moon of Earth-That-Was, and it used to happen every year. They'd tell stories of the dead walking the earth: ancestors returned to visit their families, ghosts sent to snatch the living back through the gates of Hell. They'd burn offerings, perform plays; they'd avoid weddings, water, and open spaces after dark.
They still tell the stories, but only once every seven years now, and for two months straight instead of the ancient tradition of one.
On Sihnon, fires burn bright on the streetcorners, kept in tightly tamped containers with narrow grates along the top. The only paper money this side of the system will ever see (available in packets from the vendor across the street, ten fake bills for one credit) gets tossed inside by passerby, a tourist novelty, a casual afterthought.
Beaumonde's known for its giant theater festival that spans the entire two months, one new play every day. Traditionally, only the best new drama debuts here. A work based on Sing Hua's three-act novels is slated to take center stage at the exact midpoint of this decade's festival, a time slot accompanied by an elaborate all-day buffet and one that's fiercely contested over for years leading up to it. Tickets have been sold out for well over a year and a half.
Nobody living in the Bellerophon Estates will claim to believe the myths, but travel over the vast ocean slows come nightfall anyway. Some even walk to the edge of their property, lean over to look down at the waters, and silently drop paper boats over the side before retreating indoors.
On Serenity, they hold a moment of silence, and nobody finishes their entire meal or cleans up the dishes after dinner.
In Wash and Zoe's bunk, Wash falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
It used to keep time with the moon of Earth-That-Was, and it used to happen every year. They'd tell stories of the dead walking the earth: ancestors returned to visit their families, ghosts sent to snatch the living back through the gates of Hell. They'd burn offerings, perform plays; they'd avoid weddings, water, and open spaces after dark.
They still tell the stories, but only once every seven years now, and for two months straight instead of the ancient tradition of one.
On Sihnon, fires burn bright on the streetcorners, kept in tightly tamped containers with narrow grates along the top. The only paper money this side of the system will ever see (available in packets from the vendor across the street, ten fake bills for one credit) gets tossed inside by passerby, a tourist novelty, a casual afterthought.
Beaumonde's known for its giant theater festival that spans the entire two months, one new play every day. Traditionally, only the best new drama debuts here. A work based on Sing Hua's three-act novels is slated to take center stage at the exact midpoint of this decade's festival, a time slot accompanied by an elaborate all-day buffet and one that's fiercely contested over for years leading up to it. Tickets have been sold out for well over a year and a half.
Nobody living in the Bellerophon Estates will claim to believe the myths, but travel over the vast ocean slows come nightfall anyway. Some even walk to the edge of their property, lean over to look down at the waters, and silently drop paper boats over the side before retreating indoors.
On Serenity, they hold a moment of silence, and nobody finishes their entire meal or cleans up the dishes after dinner.
In Wash and Zoe's bunk, Wash falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
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Date: 2006-09-05 08:30 pm (UTC)"Open the gates and keep the scales level. Gonna be okay, captain."
Whether she believes that last or is just trying to reassure everyone else isn't entirely clear. Maybe even to herself.
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Date: 2006-09-06 02:51 am (UTC)Pause.
"Slightly clearer English." He rubs his eyes, which are starting to redden, and looks up at Mal. There's a moment where he makes a futile attempt to swallow back the lump in his throat. His Adam's apple bobs.
He doesn't know how many more times he'll be able to explain.
"Ain't gonna be around for a while, Mal. She's taking me back."
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Date: 2006-09-06 04:31 am (UTC)Mal doesn't belong to Her anymore.
God Damnit, neither does Wash.
"...Raven, I can ask him..."
You can't leave the ship again
Even while saying it, he knows it won't work.
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Date: 2006-09-06 04:43 am (UTC)He's shaking his head as soon as he hears the name, and then braces his forehead in both hands. Wash's tone's dropped into numb recitation as he says, "It's for three months, give or take. I've got all the charts together, I'm gonna run in-depth diganostics for Kaylee, Zoe knows the manual password to my datapad but I'll give it to you too so you can get past the voice recognition, you got by fine flying without me for a couple days, you'll -- "
It cracks, slightly.
"You'll be fine."
They have to be.
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Date: 2006-09-06 05:02 am (UTC)Things were going too rutting well.
Mal straightens himself, physically and mentally tightening and hooking both thumbs through beltloops.
Cough. "What do you need from me?"
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Date: 2006-09-07 04:10 am (UTC)He drags his hands down his forehead, over his face, and thinks as best he can.
Finally: "Help me look these over -- " a helpless gesture to the charts -- "and tell me if you got anything resembling a course planned for the next month. Or couple of weeks. Anything."
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Date: 2006-09-07 04:28 am (UTC)It's not a suggestion that they put any of this off until tomorrow--it's not that easy.
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Date: 2006-09-07 04:37 am (UTC)"We'll use incense to scare away the starlings."
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Date: 2006-09-08 12:34 am (UTC)He couldn't dream up coherency on something so banal to him at the moment as course settings to save his life.
Or Wash's.
He says something about having to look at the schedule he's got for meets set up on a couple moons the other side of the quadrant for later on next week, trying not to focus on the fact that Wash won't be there in such a short time.
"We'll keep flyin', Wash."
He had to say it, even though there was nothing that could be said that would make the situation any less surreal.
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Date: 2006-09-11 02:44 am (UTC)They will.
They have to.
The kitchen lapses into silence, fragmented by the occasional soft murmur; it stays that way for a couple of hours. When they finally disband, Wash and Zoe return, arms around one another, to their bunk.
It's probably just Wash's imagination that magnifies the sound of their steps in the front hall, like the old, old stories about prisoners taking their final walk.
(The end of the worst, he thinks as he descends the ladder; the other shoe about to fall. She'd been right after all.)
He sits up in bed for another three hours, and falls asleep with his head pounding from exhaustion.