The usual disclaimers. This is a work of fanfic, not intended to entrench on any parties registered copyright interests.

With appologies to Joss Whedon, Sei Shonagon, and Peter Greenaway whose brilliance inspired this work. Thanks to Mai and Inaraesque for being the best betas in the verse.

86. He lay back obediently

He lay back obediently, silent for once, as my brush danced across his skin. It didn’t start out that way. He grumbled during the bath of water and lemon juice.

“I did bathe this mornin’ you know. You tryin’ to say I stink.”

“Mal this is part of the ritual, just lie back and enjoy it.”

“You know, I can’t afford any of your fancy wiles.”

I gave him my exasperated smile as I dried him off and gently pushed him onto the bed. I have learned to pick my fights. He does not mean to hurt me with his barbs, it’s just his way. I kissed him gently lulling him into complacency, and then I let my brush speak for me.

*I love you,* a simple phrase in French for his right arm.

*You are my home,* a concept in Russian for his left arm.

“That tickles.”

“Shhh . . . hold still. Let me have my way.“

*Your words cut me like razors,* arched around his collarbone with the Japanese symbols reaching up to caress his jugular.

*You heal me. You hurt me. Only you have this power. You and no other. I am yours, eternally. You are mine forever.* I scrawled this polyglot prayer across his chest. He moaned in pleasure as the oils I mixed with the ink warmed his skin. The unguents made his muscles quiver involuntarily.

“What are you doing to me?”

I filled my eyes with meaning and mischief, “Don’t you know. I’m casting a spell on you. Companions are trained in all the arts.”

“Well, whatever it is don’t stop.”

*In you, I have found the meaning of Serenity,* this down his right leg, the Sanskrit enlarged so that the words barely brush his inner thigh.

*And once you’ve been in Serenity you can never leave,* in Hebrew on his left.

“’Nara . . . I . . .” the words came in desperate pants, his eyes begged me for release.

“I’m almost done.”

Lastly, I wrote *Joy* in the exact place to give him that sensation. I pressed my seal on his hip, right above that ridiculous tattoo. Then, for good measure, I dipped my softest brush in gold gently swirling it until he came violently, ruining all my careful work.

“That was nasty,” was all he could say once he recovered.

I quirked an eyebrow at him leveling at stern glare at him.

“So when do I get to scribble all over you?”

“Someday. . . if you’re good.”

“But you love me because I’m bad man.” With that he pounced on me returning my gentle tortures a thousand times fold. Ink and oil mixed with semen drenched my body. It was only after, when we both lay exhausted and sated that he asked, “What did all that stuff mean anyway?”

I smiled, “Knowing the words breaks the spell. A good companion will never tell.”

********

The Pillow Book of Inara Serra Part I: The Book of Words

This was my mother’s. Aunt Kaylee gave it to me to celebrate the End of the Second War for Independence. “Fuck U’Day” we gonna to call it. She only said, “Your Ma wanted me to give this to you when you were old enough to understand.”

But I didn’t. Looking at the pages of the book, it all looked like gibberish to me. One line written in English. Another Mandarin, but not the kind I spoke. Others written in words and symbols I ain’t never seen before. I had to go to River. Moonbrained, Janye used to call her. Still, ain’t no one on Shadow knows more ‘bout random nothin’ than River does. She the one who translated it for me. Wrote it all down to in that thin wispy hand of hers (so light it looked like the words would float away if you let them). She knows all them fancy languages. Funny, River can’t talk one lick of sense. Yet sometimes I think she knows more ‘bout what’s goin’ on than any of us do.

“Momma never left you, Serenity. Always watching from far away. She’s right here waiting for you to find her.”

I was barely seven years old, last time I saw my mother. Don’t remember much ‘bout her. When I was younger I would try ta ask, but people would get all tetchy and quiet. Got the same story again and again . . . she was beautiful, graceful, and gone. “Ain’t no point in chasin’ after what you can’t have, Serenity,” Kaylee used ta say. Then her eyes would get all sad and distant, the way they would sometimes. “Best you be learnin’ that as soon as possible.”

They say I looks just like her. I don’t see it. Not with all her fancy ways people talk ‘bout, and me never outta my dungarees and such. Still, when I dream, I see purdy lady with eyes like the softest velvet. She floats through the room dancin’ with me in her arms. She’s singin’ somethin’ ‘bout the land burnin’ and the sea bolin’, but the sky always bein’ there for ya. Don’t make much sense to me. I ain’t hardly been off of Shadow.

Pa, when he weren’t off fightin’ some place, wouldn’t talk about her much. He’d just say that she was some whore he took up for a while and that he lost her durin’ the early days of the war. Wish he’s tell me more, I earned that right. But I couldn’t buy his love in blood. And the truth costs a lot more.

So this book is all I got. I keep both copies, here under my pillow where they rightly belong. Where Pa can’t find them. It seemed an odd legacy to leave one’s only child; lists, diary entries, disjointed memories. Lots of them are dirty. Makes me fair blush when I read them, ‘specially the ones that talk ‘bout Pa. But I reckon that’s all a whore got to talk about. I figure the only thing that my mother every really owned were words she didn’t care to share with no one else.

*******

One must never underestimate the power of words. Words hurt. Words heal. They name. Mark territory as surely as the lines on a map or a ring on a finger. They help us remember who we are. If used properly, can help forgive the wrongs we suffer and inflict. But they cannot forget . . . words never forget.

Writing gives the author possession over the work. Many clients have scribed they passing passions on my skin, but Mal was my first and my only human pillow book. Across his skin in the languages of Earth-that-was, those words died on their speakers’ lips, I transcribed the all that I dared not say. All the feelings for which I had no words.

Please comment. I appologize in advance for any spelling or grammar errors.

Phaedra (a bad luck name)