Disclaimer: There's a poem by William Blake called The Tiger that I quote bits of.

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The Dance

In the throne room, Zemma was trying hard to stay in the Now; which meant light conversation with Jaron and not speculation about the women surrounding the Lord Marshall.

"Did you assign Lord Vaako to bridge duty tonight?"

"No, he volunteered." Jaron's brow creased a moment. "He hasn't been looking very well."

"He's hiding something, Jaron."

"You think he knows where his wife is." It wasn't a question; and he knew her answer already.

"Duty, honor, victory. Aren't those the tenants of a 'Monger soldier?"

And Vaako implied he's missing honor.

Jaron only nodded once, possibly sharing the same thought. She'd told him of her encounter with Vaako and the impressions she had of him. Then Zemma found her eyes wandering back to the throne. Riddick was leaning into one of the Ladies as if smelling her hair. Zemma's stomach rolled over and she looked away quickly.

Jaron said it would get uglier and to be prepared.

I thought I was.

I thought you said you didn't…

Shut up.

Then what does it matter that he's playing the role you agreed with?

Zemma didn't know the answer to that. Jaron was studying her face. She made it blank with effort.

"I think I'm ready for a drink now." She smiled warmly and put her hand on his arm.

"Zemma," Jaron began in his slow style. "Is there something?"

"Let's wander closer to the musicians too. Do you dance?" She was starting to create the mask she needed now. Detached, polite, gracious. Blank.

More poise, huh?

They strolled towards one of the roving drink carts and Zemma let Jaron choose for her. It wasn't as bad as Riddick's 'good stuff' but she doubted she would ever acquire a taste for it. Still, as she felt it course through her limbs she knew it was doing the 'job'. She felt a little disconnected as they continued their walk towards the musicians.

As far from the throne as possible, eh?

But her eyes kept wandering back. And Jaron was still paying close attention to her. His eyes followed her next glance.

"Zemma," he began again.

"Let's dance, shall we?" Her voice was a little too light, so she tried to bring it down. "Do you dance, Jaron, I mean, we don't have to if…" She smiled benignly up into his face and didn't like what she saw there.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

He was trying to read her and she felt altogether too transparent.

"I can dance," he started doubtfully. Then his face changed as if he'd made some decision. "Zemma, I would be honored to dance with you," he spoke kindly.

Whew. He wasn't going to press her right now. They finished their drinks and found another cart to place their empty glasses. Then he led her onto the floor. He didn't hold her too closely, rather fatherly, and led her inexpertly around the floor. She followed easily.

But her eyes kept wandering…

She couldn't be sure from this distance and through the crowd, was Riddick looking at them? The Ladies were pressing closely, trying to get monopolize his attention. She turned her head sharply and counted her heartbeats till they slowed.

You are a colossal fool, ol' girl. Resign yourself to the Now.

I suspect you're right.

She turned her face up to Jaron, whose face showed concern again. She smiled briefly but he didn't smile back.

"Zemma, I am beginning to suspect I owe you an apology," Jaron spoke softly in Furian.

Detached. Polite. Gracious.

"Whatever do you mean?" She tried smiling into his gentle face again but his expression did not change.

Okay, go for blank.

Blank was easy, blank was very nearly habit.

"You have that 'poker-face' again." Jaron turned them and his gaze went to the throne. "May I be candid with you? And will you be candid with me?"

"Of course, Jaron, I have great respect for you." She let her voice emote the very real truth behind those words. She liked Jaron very much. She liked his presence and she loved that she could talk so easily with him. Her father had become so reticent the last few years.

They danced a few moments more before Jaron got around to what was on his mind.

"I don't mean to be indelicate." He took a breath. "Zemma, how long have you and the Lord Marshal… been lovers?" He seemed genuinely uncomfortable; unlike his testing of her when she first came to his apartment.

Zemma glanced away, but not at the throne this time. "Just the first time…" she shook her head, "Just the once," she amended.

"Oh, Child, I am so sorry. You are still quite the dichotomy in my eyes. You look and act so mature for your youth. I thought you had an established relationship with the Lord Marshal that…"

Zemma had to chuckle at this. "I'm thirty-two, Jaron."

"How old do you think I am, Zemma? Your father was a young pup when we foolishly elected him president of our outback world."

"Jaron, that's silly, you don't look any older than my father."

"You're father no doubt aged prematurely under the stress of his situation." His voice was very kind, as if making up for his last statement. "Child, I am in my nineties."

Zemma stepped back a little to look at him as they danced.

Ninety? Not fifty?

"How?"

Jaron smiled. "We are human stock, yes, but our world has changed us in many more ways than improved senses and reflexes. I can be considered middle aged."

Zemma's mind, clearly in the Now, leapt to the next logical conclusion.

"You still have Furians in your ranks!" No 'Monger soldier lived to old age, and she had seen none old enough, other than the Five Captains, to have been pressed into service at the time of Fury's invasion. Apparently she wasn't the only one who had fooled with dates. In point of fact, why hadn't the Five Captains dates been changed?

Jaron only smiled.

"Is that a 'poker-face'?" She asked him. She had a lot more questions to ask him later. At least 'Now' she wasn't feeling… all those confusing feelings.

It's jealousy, dear.

But there's still Furians in the ranks!