![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
bbikitten.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
firefly_fanficHere's a Firefly fic inspired by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
agentotter.
FIREFLY FIC: Brumbies
Author: bbikitten
Timeline/Spoilers: during events of “Out of Gas”
Summary: as he waits alone on the ship, Mal dreams of wild horses, and of freedom threatened.
The good ship Serenity are her crew © Joss Whedon. Joss, you bastard!
Deadwood and her inhabitants © David Milch & HBO
“Dove & Waterline” lyrics by Jeffrey Foucault
~ ~ ~ ~
The stars all have names
And the angels have the same
But I'm lost and I so much want
To be found
~ ~ ~ ~
… He dreamed of horses, herds of them, flights of them, rolling multi-colored masses of them that spilled across the valley like stars across a velvet sky. The rumble of their hooves brought up clouds of dust, and made the ground itself shake…
… woke again, only to find the bridge around him dark and cold. The ship was hollow. A man had learned to live with the constant sound of Serenity's turning engine like he did the beat of his own heart, and now that everything was still and silent, he might hold his breath and strain for proof of the pulse still in his veins…
Serenity continued to drift. Mal pulled the blankets tighter around himself and closed his eyes again, hoping to dream.
… indefinite nowhere, and then sunlight and horses again. Brumbies, hundreds of them, in all shades and sizes, flowing across the valley like a congregation’s prayers. The valley was familiar to him; it was the old Mwolo-Stanard homestead, there along the bottomland of Crackbone Creek where the water flowed year-around. Mal found himself standing on the northern slope of Mercher’s Butte, looking down into that valley which he remembered from his boyhood as a seasonal green or gold, and which he knew from manhood had been blasted into glass by Alliance gunships during the war years. He turned his face to the sun, relishing the warmth and the light of his own homeworld, and let the good, clean air fill his lungs.
Horses running. Wild horses in flight. Their numbers seemed endless. Mal looked down upon the valley again, and found in that dislocated way of dreaming that he was a-horse. Rawhide’s head came up with a snort and a pull at the reins, and the pair of dark-tipped ears swung forward with interest. Old Rawhide had been born wild himself, and the sudden tension in the gelding’s stocky body meant that the horse hadn’t forgotten it.
Horses never did forget. Move a fenceline or cut down a tree -- a horse would remember those details of a landscape, long after a man forgot. You could desensitize a horse, so that he didn’t balk at a ditch where maybe once a snake had struck at his hooves. But just because he didn’t shy up didn’t mean he wasn’t looking closely for that snake, even twenty-some years after the snake had made a contribution to the stew pot.
Men forgot. Men forgot too easily, especially those small, sweet portions of memory which could nourish. Mal hadn’t thought of Rawhide for years. Rawhide had been a short-coupled little bucksin gelding, hardly more than a pony in size. Mal had ridden many of the ranch’s other horses, but the gelding been Mal’s closest companion for many years, as his mother and her ranch hands had trusted him to old Rawhide’s keeping. The gelding had been a good sight steadier in temperament than his young rider had been, and had communicated his moods when necessary through a bucktrot so brutal it could drive the family jewels back up into a boy’s belly for refuge. Old Rawhide had kept a lonely boy friends through many turns of a world, and had taught him as much as any fancy wordsmith tutor.
Mal reached out to slap the dusty yellow neck, then ran his fingers through the bristling mane. He’d forgotten the tang of horse sweat, and the short, coarse feel of a roach-cut mane. The saddle leather beneath him creaked, and he felt the easy expansion of Rawhide’s ribs between his knees. The horse snorted and shook his head, pulling again at the reins. Mal felt the shift of the horse’s weight forward, that silent yearning to join the wild herd in flight.
He gave old Rawhide the rein the dun wanted, and let his own weight shift, so that when the gelding lunged forward, he was ready for the movement. Two strides, then three – and then Rawhide was sailing down hill, swallowing the ground as he chased after the brumbies.
It was exhilarating to ride like this, flat out and hell for leather. Mal-the-Boy had thought there could be nothing better; Mal-the-Man would wager good sex with a good woman could trump it, but it wouldn’t be a given. Rawhide’s stride was long and easy; the old horse has lungs like iron, and even at a pace like this, it would be miles before he began to lather. They gained on the wild herd with an ease that seemed effortless, as nothing in the real world ever could prove so true.
Mal sat straight in the saddle, reins in one hand, rein-ends hanging from the other. The wind rushed over him; if he had been wearing a hat, he might well have lost it. They were coming down on the creek bottom, where the footing might get boggy. Mal shifted weight in the saddle, and Rawhide slowed in response. Three strides, and then there was the rambling creek right before them. Mal felt the gelding gather himself; he braced for a jump, and then the buckskin was airborne and sailing over the stream. The gelding’s landing was sure-footed as a cat’s. Two strides, and they were galloping again, drawing closer on the herd with every breath. This was freedom. This was independence. To ride free, to soar across a landscape he knew and loved, with the power and liberty of a good horse beneath him and the sun smiling fair upon them -- this was what he had volunteered for service to protect, and what had sustained him when his boyish notions of heroics had met ugly reality on the front lines of the war. Mal was free, with only his own will and the responsibilities to home and hearth to dictate to him. He gave Rawhide a pop with the rein-ends, and the buckskin surged forward with fresh speed, his whole body moving with easy healthy and strength.
As always, something good couldn’t last, not even in the refuge of his dreams. Mal was riding up hard on the herd’s flank before he realized what he was there for. Rawhide was still gaining ground, passing by the foal-heavy mares, heading to get forward of the surging press and turn them. There would be pens waiting down the valley, where the hillsides came in steep and sudden. There would be pens waiting, and trucks, even some larger hovertrans.
Because, after all, wild horses were like all other vermin. Horses went feral, and just like cats, dogs and pigs, they would breed and multiply until there was nothing left for them to consume. Man had brought these creatures from Earth-that-Was, and Man had to keep them in check. So every few years, when the wild horses grew too many and began to eat the land ragged, it was time to round them up. Chase the herds for days from air, then channel them into pens. Cull out the best of the young and healthy to train up as saddle stock, and sell the rest to the same feedlots as bought up calves for table and market. A few wild horses always were contrary and managed an escape; give ‘m a handful of years, and soon there’d be too many brumbies again.
The joyous thrill of the chase was suddenly dry and bitter with dust. He knew what was awaiting these free creatures. Pursuit. Capture. A processing line through the squeeze chute, or to be roped and dragged down for the burn of the white-hot brand. The feedlot for some, a rifle bullet for others; only a very few would survive, and for those that did, it meant a subjugation to bridle and bit.
He wanted no part of this. Mal reined his horse in, but Rawhide had the bit in his teeth and no amount of sawing on the reins would bring the gelding in. Mal shouted and sat his weight back in the saddle, dragging at the bit, throwing his whole body and strength into curbing the beast, but his mount had a mind of its own and would not stop. Abruptly, Mal heard the flat crack of a rifle, and a painted mare alongside them dropped. Another shot, and this time a young colt went down, screaming in agony.
A third shot, and this one hammered into Mal’s own side. The force of it knocked him from the saddle, and he felt himself fall, knowing he was going under the hooves of the roiling herd—
He woke with a wrench, one hand clutching his side above the hip, still feeling the dream-echo of that wound. Disorientated, Mal looked blankly at the panel of consoles before him, finding them all dark except for the comm, which was buzzing with empty white noise.
Serenity was still adrift, dead at sea and empty, her heart stopped and her lungs no longer providing oxygen for her sole remaining crewman. Mal struggled to separate dream-state from the nightmare of reality. As he felt the first rising beam of light through the bridge window against his face, his thoughts were of the sun back on Shadow, and was still tasting the memory of dust and of horse sweat, fragrant and dry in his mouth.
agentotter. FIREFLY FIC: Brumbies
Author: bbikitten
Timeline/Spoilers: during events of “Out of Gas”
Summary: as he waits alone on the ship, Mal dreams of wild horses, and of freedom threatened.
The good ship Serenity are her crew © Joss Whedon. Joss, you bastard!
Deadwood and her inhabitants © David Milch & HBO
“Dove & Waterline” lyrics by Jeffrey Foucault
~ ~ ~ ~
The stars all have names
And the angels have the same
But I'm lost and I so much want
To be found
~ ~ ~ ~
… He dreamed of horses, herds of them, flights of them, rolling multi-colored masses of them that spilled across the valley like stars across a velvet sky. The rumble of their hooves brought up clouds of dust, and made the ground itself shake…
… woke again, only to find the bridge around him dark and cold. The ship was hollow. A man had learned to live with the constant sound of Serenity's turning engine like he did the beat of his own heart, and now that everything was still and silent, he might hold his breath and strain for proof of the pulse still in his veins…
Serenity continued to drift. Mal pulled the blankets tighter around himself and closed his eyes again, hoping to dream.
… indefinite nowhere, and then sunlight and horses again. Brumbies, hundreds of them, in all shades and sizes, flowing across the valley like a congregation’s prayers. The valley was familiar to him; it was the old Mwolo-Stanard homestead, there along the bottomland of Crackbone Creek where the water flowed year-around. Mal found himself standing on the northern slope of Mercher’s Butte, looking down into that valley which he remembered from his boyhood as a seasonal green or gold, and which he knew from manhood had been blasted into glass by Alliance gunships during the war years. He turned his face to the sun, relishing the warmth and the light of his own homeworld, and let the good, clean air fill his lungs.
Horses running. Wild horses in flight. Their numbers seemed endless. Mal looked down upon the valley again, and found in that dislocated way of dreaming that he was a-horse. Rawhide’s head came up with a snort and a pull at the reins, and the pair of dark-tipped ears swung forward with interest. Old Rawhide had been born wild himself, and the sudden tension in the gelding’s stocky body meant that the horse hadn’t forgotten it.
Horses never did forget. Move a fenceline or cut down a tree -- a horse would remember those details of a landscape, long after a man forgot. You could desensitize a horse, so that he didn’t balk at a ditch where maybe once a snake had struck at his hooves. But just because he didn’t shy up didn’t mean he wasn’t looking closely for that snake, even twenty-some years after the snake had made a contribution to the stew pot.
Men forgot. Men forgot too easily, especially those small, sweet portions of memory which could nourish. Mal hadn’t thought of Rawhide for years. Rawhide had been a short-coupled little bucksin gelding, hardly more than a pony in size. Mal had ridden many of the ranch’s other horses, but the gelding been Mal’s closest companion for many years, as his mother and her ranch hands had trusted him to old Rawhide’s keeping. The gelding had been a good sight steadier in temperament than his young rider had been, and had communicated his moods when necessary through a bucktrot so brutal it could drive the family jewels back up into a boy’s belly for refuge. Old Rawhide had kept a lonely boy friends through many turns of a world, and had taught him as much as any fancy wordsmith tutor.
Mal reached out to slap the dusty yellow neck, then ran his fingers through the bristling mane. He’d forgotten the tang of horse sweat, and the short, coarse feel of a roach-cut mane. The saddle leather beneath him creaked, and he felt the easy expansion of Rawhide’s ribs between his knees. The horse snorted and shook his head, pulling again at the reins. Mal felt the shift of the horse’s weight forward, that silent yearning to join the wild herd in flight.
He gave old Rawhide the rein the dun wanted, and let his own weight shift, so that when the gelding lunged forward, he was ready for the movement. Two strides, then three – and then Rawhide was sailing down hill, swallowing the ground as he chased after the brumbies.
It was exhilarating to ride like this, flat out and hell for leather. Mal-the-Boy had thought there could be nothing better; Mal-the-Man would wager good sex with a good woman could trump it, but it wouldn’t be a given. Rawhide’s stride was long and easy; the old horse has lungs like iron, and even at a pace like this, it would be miles before he began to lather. They gained on the wild herd with an ease that seemed effortless, as nothing in the real world ever could prove so true.
Mal sat straight in the saddle, reins in one hand, rein-ends hanging from the other. The wind rushed over him; if he had been wearing a hat, he might well have lost it. They were coming down on the creek bottom, where the footing might get boggy. Mal shifted weight in the saddle, and Rawhide slowed in response. Three strides, and then there was the rambling creek right before them. Mal felt the gelding gather himself; he braced for a jump, and then the buckskin was airborne and sailing over the stream. The gelding’s landing was sure-footed as a cat’s. Two strides, and they were galloping again, drawing closer on the herd with every breath. This was freedom. This was independence. To ride free, to soar across a landscape he knew and loved, with the power and liberty of a good horse beneath him and the sun smiling fair upon them -- this was what he had volunteered for service to protect, and what had sustained him when his boyish notions of heroics had met ugly reality on the front lines of the war. Mal was free, with only his own will and the responsibilities to home and hearth to dictate to him. He gave Rawhide a pop with the rein-ends, and the buckskin surged forward with fresh speed, his whole body moving with easy healthy and strength.
As always, something good couldn’t last, not even in the refuge of his dreams. Mal was riding up hard on the herd’s flank before he realized what he was there for. Rawhide was still gaining ground, passing by the foal-heavy mares, heading to get forward of the surging press and turn them. There would be pens waiting down the valley, where the hillsides came in steep and sudden. There would be pens waiting, and trucks, even some larger hovertrans.
Because, after all, wild horses were like all other vermin. Horses went feral, and just like cats, dogs and pigs, they would breed and multiply until there was nothing left for them to consume. Man had brought these creatures from Earth-that-Was, and Man had to keep them in check. So every few years, when the wild horses grew too many and began to eat the land ragged, it was time to round them up. Chase the herds for days from air, then channel them into pens. Cull out the best of the young and healthy to train up as saddle stock, and sell the rest to the same feedlots as bought up calves for table and market. A few wild horses always were contrary and managed an escape; give ‘m a handful of years, and soon there’d be too many brumbies again.
The joyous thrill of the chase was suddenly dry and bitter with dust. He knew what was awaiting these free creatures. Pursuit. Capture. A processing line through the squeeze chute, or to be roped and dragged down for the burn of the white-hot brand. The feedlot for some, a rifle bullet for others; only a very few would survive, and for those that did, it meant a subjugation to bridle and bit.
He wanted no part of this. Mal reined his horse in, but Rawhide had the bit in his teeth and no amount of sawing on the reins would bring the gelding in. Mal shouted and sat his weight back in the saddle, dragging at the bit, throwing his whole body and strength into curbing the beast, but his mount had a mind of its own and would not stop. Abruptly, Mal heard the flat crack of a rifle, and a painted mare alongside them dropped. Another shot, and this time a young colt went down, screaming in agony.
A third shot, and this one hammered into Mal’s own side. The force of it knocked him from the saddle, and he felt himself fall, knowing he was going under the hooves of the roiling herd—
He woke with a wrench, one hand clutching his side above the hip, still feeling the dream-echo of that wound. Disorientated, Mal looked blankly at the panel of consoles before him, finding them all dark except for the comm, which was buzzing with empty white noise.
Serenity was still adrift, dead at sea and empty, her heart stopped and her lungs no longer providing oxygen for her sole remaining crewman. Mal struggled to separate dream-state from the nightmare of reality. As he felt the first rising beam of light through the bridge window against his face, his thoughts were of the sun back on Shadow, and was still tasting the memory of dust and of horse sweat, fragrant and dry in his mouth.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-22 06:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-22 09:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-23 07:58 am (UTC)It's wonderful. I could see the horses galloping across the open land, and feel the sensation of riding a good horse running free, which made the ending all the more poignant. Mal definitely is a horseman, born and bred to the saddle and the open range. Well done!
Xie xie!
Date: 2005-12-23 05:04 pm (UTC)I've got a larger Firefly/Deadwood crossover that I'm concentrating on right now, but this little snapshot piece has been nagging at me to get done. I love the whole spaceships & horses vibe of Firefly, and getting a pretty fellow like Captain Tightpants up in the saddle and dashing around just seems like the right thing to do, y'know?
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-24 12:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-24 07:15 am (UTC)Beautiful imagery here, thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 01:44 am (UTC)