Disclaimer: They're all Whedon's.

Author's Note: I wrote this in a bit of a fever, can't judge how it'll go over. But, really, how hard would it be for a heist to go wrong on some backwater moon? And how many people believe Mal's never done anything to warrant a death sentence?

Who Shall Stand

by Ariane

The gallows wear the fragrance of sweet cut pine, a christening of sawdust -- expectation. Nooses are elegant in silhouette. Only the villain of the piece, straight-backed and proud on the trapdoor, commands as many pleasant shivers. It's a clean collection of geometry, judges the modest audience (the little ones ugly with fascination). Don't it sometimes take his head off? The thief holds his soldier's stance and trembles like a kitten when they blindfold him. A voice tumbles out from above a shepherd's collar-- ever-merciful, he wants to know: You got anything you need to say? (A word could turn them all to stone, faces rough-hewn to mirror his nauseous fear. Dead men have that power.) He expires in pink blooms of burst vessels, frosted blue lips. There's a waterfall roar in his ears--his leaden, freefalling heart and sated justice purring on the ground. What was it he said? (They wander off, their own masters once more.) Anybody hear? I owe you nothin', the preacher echoes, and echoes. Not even an explanation.