“As women we control so little of our destiny.”
There were so many things that Inara could have said to Viktoria in that moment, endless possibilities to comfort the clearly shaken young woman. Even Inara, trying her best not to look at the princess overlong, could see her flushed cheeks, the sparkle of a tear here or there on the edge of her eyes. And Inara could hardly blame her; Viktoria was, through no fault of her own, left alone here in a strange land, with no friends or family or even a trusted servant within probably a thousand miles. It had to be uncomfortable, had to be terrifying.
But, Viktoria’s fault or not, she was also here to marry the man that Inara had once loved. Still loved, maybe, if she could ever get past the red-hot rage boiling in her chest. The fact that Inara had been assigned to protect the woman until the wedding was either a deliberate insult or an attempt to make it easier to kill the poor young lady -- and while Inara hoped it was the latter so that she could ruin the would-be assassin’s day by proving that her honor was somewhat greater than her pettiness, she could never be sure.
And though her pettiness and bitterness were not so great that she would allow the poor young thing to be murdered, they still left a rather bitter taste on her tongue and lips as she told her, “Perhaps that’s how it works for you. I, however, am no pretty noble damsel.”
Her destiny. Such as it was. Guard the princess, watch the man she loved marry the woman she’d protected, die sometime later in a ditch.
But at least she controlled it. Sure.
