Ecclesiastes 1:11 - There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.

***

To be honest (and Book knows that, in the words of the True Shepherd, of whom he is but a humble servant, the truth will set him free), he did not recognize her at first. The faux pas and bewilderment, then embarrassment, he showed at being introduced were not feigned.

Perhaps she had changed, subtly but enough to hinder recognition, realization, memory? Or perhaps – and this, he knows, is far closer to the heart of the matter – he had changed. And nothing subtle about it.

Still. He had been aboard ship nearly a week before it came to him. While he was sitting on the narrow bunk of the almost-as-narrow passenger cabin and contemplating just what he had gotten himself into, and felt the Companion’s face tugging at his subconscious again. Not the first time. No. He had gone... to her shuttle, after Whitefall, seeking... something. And he thought he had found it, in the unlooked-for sympathy and peace he had found in a moment of benediction. But... if that was all it was... then why was her face back? Again?

The convent had taught him the importance – even the necessity – of following the urgings of the soul, and so Book had crossed his legs and steadied his breathing and meditated. Let his mind go where it would.

Into the past.

Into the areas where the God-fearing and kind and moral man he is now hates and fears to go...

Book found her, at last, eight years back. Certain social obligations—no, he corrected the memory, certain career obligations—had arisen. It had been advisable that he have an escort on his arm for the functions he would be attending. If nothing else, it prevented the unattached women in the government sphere from singling him out and making his evenings that much more difficult. A nuisance to be sure, to arrange female companionship for the round of parties, balls, dinners, awards ceremonies; he had opted for the easiest solution. The commercial solution. A trained Companion; wasn’t that exactly what such women did? No complications. A business arrangement.

He had had one of his staff contact the local Guild to engage the services of a Companion. They had responded swiftly with several possible candidates. He had let his aide make the selection for him with no more instruction than “someone halfway intelligent, please.”

The evening of the first function, and he had politely and absently introduced himself to Companion Inara Serra, one of the younger of the Guild’s registered local Companions. Some slight frustration on his part—he should have specified to his aide that he wanted an experienced, mature Companion; one who could be trusted to be professional, discreet, diplomatic at all points. She looked too young. She would do for the first evening, he supposed, but someone else would have to be gotten for the others.

(Of course she had been beautiful. That was the other thing such women did, be beautiful. Raven-haired, curved of hips and neck and lips. Soft of skin, smelling of something exotic and rare and sensual – jasmine, or sandalwood.)

In the locked portions of Book’s mind the evening is vividly written: Her dark eyes sparkling like the tasteful jewelry that glittered at her throat and ears. Her black hair artfully done up, a few tendrils purposely ‘strayed’ to curl and linger on the pale skin of her neck. Her graceful fingers resting as lightly as a butterfly on his arm. And, like a butterfly, she had been beautifully dressed: deep reds and rich purples, fabrics of stylish cut and stunning elegance. Her dress had easily outshone his uniform, immaculate and crisp and decorated though it had been.

(On his narrow bunk, the man called Book shivered at the unwelcome recollections. But he did not break his meditative state.)

The evening had progressed satisfactorily—more than satisfactorily. Serra had proved his fears about her inexperience to be completely unfounded. She had been everything he’d required: sophisticate and cultured, witty and charming, eminently graceful; better-mannered than the generals and ministers and ambassadors who had asked her for dances.

And she had danced exquisitely.

He had not requested a different Companion for the second night. Indeed, watching her cut a silken way through the crowd had been the highlight of his evening. Inara had danced exactly once with all the men who had asked her. Inara had discussed politics, religion, art, and the war with ease and poise. Inara had smiled with consummate professional sincerity and beauty and poison to all who spoke to her. Inara had made men fall in love with her by just walking by. Inara had exuded every thing the other women at the party aimed for: elegance, refinement, sexuality, charm, discretion, intelligence, danger.

It had been one of the most flawless constructions he had ever seen, and he had wondered if he had been recruiting his special ops soldiers from the wrong set of people: if this was what Companion training made one capable of...

The second evening had also progressed. The week had done the same. He forgot that her presence was a nuisance, and found himself understanding just how the men who squandered millions of credits on the pleasures of Companionship got themselves so thoroughly addicted.

On the sixth night, after the awards ceremony they had attended, he did not instruct his aide to escort Companion Serra to her transport. Instead he invited her up for a glass of wine.

Inara had smiled at him, the curve of her lips a perfect exercise in composed beauty, as if she was neither surprised by the invitation nor eager for it. They had talked of polite nothings as the lift carried them swiftly up into the building’s spire. The doors had opened with barely a sound other than the small hiss of displaced air, and he had taken advantage of the moment’s pause and silence to say, “I admire your poise, Companion.”

She had smiled again, exquisite, the soft lighting gleaming on her qigong (tonight’s was an affair of deep emerald silks with antiqued gold trim) and raven’s-wing hair and perfect lips, and replied in smooth tones of harmonic pitch, “And I yours, General.”

He had laughed, softly, surprising even himself; he had not been a man much for laughter. For strategies, politics, operations, tactics, assaults, eliminations... for cold necessities... yes. Laughter, not so much.

“My poise?” And he had, politely, taken her shawl from her—thing of dark dark green lace that it was, purely decorative, it wouldn’t have kept out an afternoon breeze much less the night chill—and hung it up for her. And found his palms itching and fingers trembling with the desire to touch, to trace the line of her bared shoulders, the half-amplitude sine curve of her spine.

Inara had turned, gracious and graceful as always, eyes low in a manner that was, supposedly, demure, but in truth had nothing submissive about it. Not in the way her long dark lashes brushed her skin, not in the angle of her head, not in the curve of her amused knowing smile. “Yes. You strike me as a man of great poise, General. And self-control.”

He hadn’t laughed this time, merely stepped closer and permitted himself the indulgence: his hands came to her shoulders, palms settling on the softness of flesh. The contrast had been striking, dark chocolate on pale cream, and her skin had been very warm. In an even tone he had replied, “Self-control? And what makes you think that, Companion?”

Her smile had deepened, slipping perhaps for the first time out of the realm of the strictly polished and into something that actually fit her age, something warmer. Serra’s slim fingers had danced to his own mouth, lightly stopped his words, and with laughter lurking in her tone she had answered, “You’ve held out for six days, General. I can’t recall the last time a man took so long to succumb to my feminine wiles. ...and please. It is Inara.”

He had paused with her fingers on his lips, feeling the very softness and presence of her like a punch in the gut. Compromise. Complication. Distraction. He had a war to win. And yet—certainly he was allowed some small personal excesses...?

“Nathaniel,” he had murmured before claiming her mouth with his own, her skin with his fingers, her collarbones and shoulderblades with his palms. Inara had responded passionately, sensually, erotically. As a Companion did for a paying client.

***

Two weeks in all, before he had reached the number of mandatory appearances and dinners and balls to satisfy the social requirements of his career, during this the social season. Inara accompanied him to each, making the events more tolerable than they would have otherwise been.

In the locked portions of Book’s mind the evenings are vividly written. The nights more so.

Inara’s fingernails are painted a pristine white tonight, like the satin scarf that slides easily off her graceful neck. Soft urging words, fingernails moving savage up his back, savage and slow up his spine and nerves. Body contrast, one white arm curling over coffee-colored skin. Exorbitant and beautiful dresses of various hues tossed to the floor. The impeccably folded grey of an Alliance general’s dress uniform on the chair nearby. Inara’s fingernails are red tonight, red as the blood that dots her lip when she pulls back from an especially demanding kiss—his blood, not hers. The air in the expensive and very secure penthouse is thick with jasmine and sandalwood and sex and the smoke of the candles. These candles flicker soft light over curves of pale flesh/over powerful soldier’s muscles/ and pale traceries of old scars. Inara’s fingernails are gold tonight, like the dress she wore, that he took off her with his teeth. The air is thick with gasps, noises, pleas, laughter, moans. Two sets of dark eyes glint in the half-light. A perfect breast is touched by calloused killing hands. Inara’s fingernails are purple tonight, deep royal purple that may very well suffocate him in lotus and lilac. The wine tastes better than her mouth, but not by much, and not half as good as her skin. Shadows gather closely and lovingly on tangled bodies. Black and white play together in the room and become some bittersweet color that is not exactly grey. The penthouse has a grand view of this glorious, wealthy city on this glorious, wealthy Core world. Alliance world. There is exquisite music playing on the penthouse’s hidden audio, a guqin, masterfully played, notes plucked in a rhythm matched by the bodies on the bed. Her hair is back from her face, falling like midnight down her back; she arches and cries and touches and coaxes and smiles, so knowingly, always knowingly. Inara’s fingernails are black tonight.

“Nathaniel,” she had said in one aftermath, slim graceful finger tracing the line of his bicep. It was always Nathaniel. To the very very few who were on first-name terms with the general, he was Nathan; but he had told Inara ‘Nathaniel’ and she had not wavered from that, not taken the shorter route. He was glad of this somehow, although his name on her lips made him feel brittle and cold. She spoke it with such seeming affection.

“Yes.” Her finger had been traveling over the corded muscles in his forearm.

“Have you actually read all these books...” Her tone had been light, teasing. Her glittering feline eyes flickering out to the bookshelves in his home, well-stocked as they had been in those days. “...or are they just for the sake of showing off antiques?”

He had shifted, eyes roaming the shelves briefly, scanning over familiar volumes and authors. Sun Tzu, Dickens, Tolstoy, Balzac.... They were actual books, such as had existed on Earth-that-was, and many were priceless antiques in this age of holograms, vidsheets, texters, and light projectors. “Yes,” he’d answered after a moment. Sensed Inara’s approval, though she had said nothing, merely splayed her fingers on his chest and smiled the smile that said she wasn’t surprised, by anything at all.

“Books contain knowledge,” he’d mused aloud, simply because it was pleasurable to speak to her. As good as the sex was—and it was very good—he did not regret paying money simply to be with her, converse with her, hear her opinions on things. “They are invaluable records of what has come before. But books also contain wisdom: they are clues as to what will come again.”

Inara had had the glint of teasing in her eyes when she’d replied, “And the electronic scans of all these books don’t contain the same wisdom?”

He had growled softly, then belied the noise by his lazy smile. “Insolent young woman. Have some respect for the old things of the past.”

“Oh but I do. Immense respect, ” she had laughed, hand unerringly moving between his legs and earning an indignant snort from him.

“Not that old, Companion, thank you very much,” he had pointed out sharply, smile tugging at his lips, and further conversation had been put on hold for several minutes. Later she had begun, again, to tease him about keeping the relics of the past. They had been eating, dressed half-heartedly—she in a robe of his she had appropriated, he in a pair of trousers loosely fastened—and enjoying the extravagant wines. He had let her tease, allowed her the mocking, gentle smile. The knowing smile. Watched her black fingernails tap along the fine crystal of the glasses.

Into the comfortable silence that had descended in one interval of speech (the guqin still playing soft on the audio): “You are aware, I am sure, that tonight is the last night you have paid for, Nathaniel.” (She had coolly sipped at her wine, and had perhaps been waiting for some response from him. He had been silent. Perhaps it was disappointment that had flickered across her perfect features briefly.) “I have greatly enjoyed our time, Nathaniel. And your company.”

“And I yours, Inara.” The truth—for what little it mattered. Inara had smiled at him, genuinely, sweetly, and as always, knowingly....

“Do you know?” he had asked suddenly, leaning forward in his seat without preamble. Confusion had furrowed the graceful brow; she’d waited for him to finish the question, stick the grammatical ending on to it; when he had not, she had frowned, delicately, and opened her mouth to ask what he meant. She had not asked. Instead her features had grown more and more confused, then finally slack, peaceful, serene. Inara had slept, the milligrams of nearly undetectable soporific in her wine doing their job. He had sat and watched her for some time, admired the fall of dark curls over her shoulder, been reluctant to let the peace she had brought with her leave the room. Finally he had risen and completed dressing, then called two soldiers to take her away. Inara Serra was by no means to be hurt. Inara Serra was to be taken, however, to certain rooms with certain doctors in them, who would perform a certain classified operation on her. After which Inara Serra, no longer having any recollection of an Alliance general named Nathaniel Hark, would be safely returned to her Guild.

He had been surprised to discover he felt some regret over the incident. He was a man for necessities, after all; and the nature of his work made such a precaution necessary. It had been a number of years since he had felt anything approaching regret for the necessities, however. Still. Her face had nagged at him for perhaps a few months, haunted the moments before sleep, and he had toyed with the idea of engaging her services again. But the thought of having to tell her to call him Nathaniel, the thought of her touching him as if it was the first time, the thought of having to pretend surprise when she revealed some tidbit about herself he already knew... no. Instead he had read, taken the old relics of the past off the shelves, and looked through them again, looking for what had been, and what was to come. And eventually Inara Serra’s face had joined the faceless in his mind, the vast number of people in his wake that were simply too many to be counted or considered. And life had simply gone on, with no further thoughts of a woman in whose body (and company) he had taken pleasure for a handful of days.

Until now...

In his cabin, Book broke the trance, wide eyes seeking out something, anything, to take him from the images in his mind’s eye. He wiped at the sweat that rolled down his temple, buried his face in one hand, and clutched at the book upon his bed like a drowning man grabs at a plank. “Oh God,” he said roughly into the damning silence of his room, and held the worn book to his chest, for succor, for comfort, for faith. All the other volumes he had once owned had long since been sold. The profits channeled into atonement. Book’s white-knuckled fingers gripped the Bible close, and he bowed his head, and prayed fervently.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven.... forgive me. Forgive me my sins, both lesser and greater. Forgive me the cruelties that have come before, oh my God. Forgive the hardening of the heart, oh my God. Forgive me the lies, both said and unsaid, oh my God. Forgive me the desires of the flesh, oh my God.

“Forgive me the past, oh my God.

“Forgive me the present, oh my God.

“And forgive me what I may do in the future, oh my God...”

***

Inara Serra walked serenely through the ship, the soft hiss of satin on metal following her over catwalks and stairways. It was late, and quiet, but she had always preferred being awake during the night-time hours anyways. Not, she thought with a small smile, that it really mattered, out in the Black. It was always night-time there.

Still. When the rest of the crew slept, or engaged themselves in their night’s pursuits... it was pleasant, to walk Serenity then. She heard a muffled laugh echo from the direction of the ladder of Wash and Zoe’s berth, and smiled to herself. She heard a soft humming from Kaylee’s, and her smile grew a bit. She heard an oath from Jayne’s, and rolled her eyes. She heard silence from Mal’s, and her brows knitted, slightly, in worry. She heard soft voices murmuring reassurance in Simon and River’s, and she closed her eyes, wished them well in her mind. And from the shepherd’s...

Inara frowned, head slightly bowed as she paused for a moment outside Book’s door. Praying. He was praying. The words were low and not fully distinguishable, but the tone was eloquent in itself. A man in anguish was crying out to his God, seeking... something. Inara half-raised one slim and graceful hand, considering knocking. She remembered his distress in her shuttle. The seeming peace he had taken away from their conversation. Her hand hesitated.

“...my sins, oh my God...” came audible through the door, and Inara wavered, and dropped her hand back to her side. There was help, and comfort, and there were also things a man needed to wrestle with privately. She believed this was the latter.

Still... she could not help but wonder, as she made her way through the dark and quiet ship, what could torment a man like Book, a gentle man, a kind man. What sins could he have possibly committed, to haunt him so...

“May you find serenity, shepherd,” she whispered to the silent dark. “Or may she find you.”