“Red Sands” (3/15)
Jun. 15th, 2010 09:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “Red Sands” (3/15)
Author:Kristen999
Word Count: 125,000~
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Gen, Drama, Action, H/C
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence and coarse language
Summary: Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.
Notes: This is not a WIP. A chapter will be posted every other day until complete.
I wanted to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice during the writing of this. I also wanted to thank my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together.
“Previous Chapters”
Feedback is always appreciated.
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Something that appeared more like a straw than a needle had been jammed into the crook of John's elbow; his blood drained loudly into a container that hung beside him. The room was cast in mystery, the light from the crystals doing little to expose its secrets. The whole chamber felt like a morgue or Doctor Frankenstein's lab with him a willing participant in an ongoing experiment.
The sound of his blood rattling the container set his teeth on edge. He let his eyelids flutter closed and his body surrender to lethargy and pain. He teetered on the brink of awareness and tried to blink away the halos in his vision.
It was visceral, watching his strength bleed away, as his arms twitched instinctively against the straps. With his energy gone there was nothing left to fight the hunger that he’d kept at bay, and now it clawed at his insides.
The blood merchant waited quietly nearby, like a vulture, as John’s life continued to pour into the container. A strange figure, nothing like the eerily robed Shan’ka, entered the room and joined the other, leaning in closely to speak.
They probably think you're unconscious.
“No need for you... to be here,” the Shan'ka's voice vibrated with anger.
“Just making sure you uphold your end of the deal. I think you've been holding back on me lately. Can't have that,” a deep voice replied calmly.
“Our word is law. We... do not break agreements.”
“Why don't I believe you?”
John cracked his eyes open to mere slits, allowing him a view of the fuzzy outlines of the two figures.
The Shan'ka's words buzzed in and out. “You have...job....keep the...in the Void....”
“Be sure...to....blood samples....”
The conversation faded into the background as white noise filled his head and he fell deeper into the haze. Then a pale, blurry face peered down at him. “We are done. Be still,” the Shan'ka instructed.
The needle was plucked out and blood quickly welled up into the hole. The merchant turned to one of his blue-robed brethren who silently handed over an object. John noticed the burning smell, but it wasn't until the Shan'ka held up a rod that he realized what was going to happen next.
“We must seal the wound. No drops should be lost.”
John could barely hold back the scream as the heated tip cauterized the puncture. He'd barely recovered from the sterilization when his bonds were removed and the ground rushed up to meet him. His feet refused to hold his weight, and his addled mind was unable to figure up from down. Vertigo triggered a round of dry heaving, sending him to his hands and knees.
“The exchange is complete, 45482.”
“Goody, another assigned number.” Hands hauled John upright, and his boot toes dragged on the floor before barely gaining purchase. “What?... No juice and cookies?”
John wanted to die. Giving blood when already so dehydrated had been a giant risk and he wasn’t coping like he needed to. But he had to walk on his own power in front of the blood merchants or risk being seen as too weak to survive.
“Easy boys,” he grunted when his left shoulder slammed into a corner.
Steel-boned hands let him go and he almost failed to keep himself upright before grabbing the wall to steady himself.
A Shan'ka appeared from out of nowhere handing him a small pouch with blue alien lettering on it. “Your dunka of water.”
John tried not to vomit on the merchant’s boots. “Gee, thanks.”
He funneled all his focus on the pouch, stuffing it in the knapsack he’d almost forgotten was around his shoulder.
The Shan'ka's opaque eyes bored into him. “We will see you again.”
“Maybe,” John quipped with an answer that would make him right either way.
As the Shan'ka slipped back into the darkness, John stayed clinging desperately to the wall, knowing if he let go of it he'd be part of the floor. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he finally loosened his grip and headed for a faint light at the end of the narrow cavern. It wasn't the way he'd come in, but he heard voices and followed them out of the Hall of Horrors.
The aroma of food hit his nose and his stomach growled and clenched with anticipation of being filled. Seconds later nausea tore through his gut and doubled him over. He stumbled toward a corner, only the wall controlling his slide to the floor.
Get a grip, John. You have to do this again tomorrow.
People filled the next chamber he entered. They were bleary-eyed and hopeless, haggling trinkets and other things to anyone who'd listen. Many were turned away and forced to seek the Shan'ka for an exchange.
His stomach rumbled again and John realized how truly fucked he was. He had one dunka of water and nothing left to trade. They needed food; hell, Ronon needed a lot of food. And medicine, if medicine existed. If there were opiates, there might be other drugs. Staring at his boots, he wondered if his feet could handle the rough desert terrain without protection.
“Did you go in there?”
John schooled his features, hoping not to show how relieved he was at seeing a relatively friendly face. “Yeah.” He hadn’t seen Lyle enter the cavern. Which meant he had come out the exit. “What were you doing there?”
“I have business with the Shan'ka.”
“Really. What kind?” John's voice was hostile, but he felt like twenty miles of dead road and needed a target.
Lyle squatted down next to him, removed his dirty-orange turban, and scratched his head. He was a tough nut to crack; a face weathered by the sun obscured his true age. The beard misleading. Early fifties perhaps? But under the simple business façade was a quick mind. “I have things they desire.”
The merchant scraped at his scalp absently and John resisted the urge to rub his nails over the red splotches on his arms. “What do they want?”
Lyle's eyes darkened. “Nothing you need to know about.” Then his expression softened into its usual grin, reminding John of McKay when he thought he'd discovered some new kind of tech. “You have anything to trade? You look like you need to,” he said, reaching for John's knapsack.
“Touch it and I'll kill you.”
Lyle chuckled, unintimidated. “Maybe. But I'm not going to take your water, stranger. It is forbidden to steal from an exchange. That belongs to the Shan'ka. You’re only borrowing it.”
“What do they do? Recycle the blood?”
“They extract the water from it. Give you two-thirds of what they harvest and keep the rest. The Shan'ka can take water from almost anything. They are the reason we survive,” he said, almost in admiration.
John knew all you needed was an elaborate centrifuge of some kind to separate all the parts of the blood. But where did they get the technology? And how?
He rubbed his eyes as pain spiked through his temples. “Why obey them?”
“They control the balance. Without them, there’s not enough water to drink or to use for food or trade. ”
“Supply and demand meets Darwin,” John muttered.
“Water is the key to life; it is sacred. The Saurin do not bring enough for all. The Shan'ka control the transformation of water. So they control us.” Yeah, there was admiration there, even respect. Lyle rolled another a cigarette with uncalloused hands inexperienced to physical labor.
“Then the easiest way to get water is to kill.”
“We are not allowed to take a life; the punishment is worse than any death. But if one is not of able body, then they can be claimed. Without the Shan'ka we would kill each other and no one would live.”
John wondered if that was the Spraza's real source of wealth. Find the strongest to join their gang and pick off the weak in the process. Like some sick black market trade. “Is that why people don't steal all my water when I get jumped? Some weird honor code?”
“If you’re not able to keep your water, then you deserve to have it taken. But you must be left with just enough for a chance. The desert kills enough; we need people to hunt and farm. To make and barter what is needed. To complete the cycle.”
What if the water didn't show up when it was supposed to? When did the Spraza and everyone else start hunting down the weak for the only source of viable water for drink or trade?
“Do you have a shop around here?” John asked.
“Why?”
“I need food.”
“I don't have any.”
“But you can get it.”
“Yes. And what are you gonna give me in return?”
John only had one thing. “You can claim me if I die.” The merchant's eyes glinted wildly for a split second and John wondered if this was another bad idea. “You lend me food and water and if I don't live long enough to pay back the debt, you'll make ten times the profit.” Or more.
“I can provide you enough food for eight cycles. I have no water to spare.”
“I'm offering you twenty, thirty, hell, maybe a hundred dunkas of water!” John growled.
“No, you’re giving me nothing,” Lyle’s voice matched John’s intensity. “None of us should ever expect to see tomorrow. You have my offer. Take it or leave it.”
Lyle was no fool. John was the one who couldn't bargain, and he could only assume the trader had little room for charity. “What about medicine?”
“Medicine? Herbs are for the weak. To use it would mean--”
“Humor me.”
“You can only get healing herbs from the Jad and eight cycles of food is not enough for that.”
The news was sobering. John would have to find a way obtain that too, but one thing at a time.
Lyle stood up, adjusting his robe. “We both return to the Shan'ka two times in a cycle and plan on walking back out. Is a rare thing, stranger.”
“Since you'll be carrying around my deed, how about calling me Sheppard?”
“Very well, Sheppard. Shall we conduct our business?”
Returning to the Shan'ka lair revealed little more than the first time. Shan'ka drifted in and out silently—in fact they never spoke aloud to each other. They blended into the darkness, becoming one with it.
John searched for signs of their technology, scouting ways to sneak back in to steal it. There was no evidence that the Shan'ka carried any weapons, but the burly guards posed enough of a threat. It was a challenge to canvass a layout when he constantly battled lightheadedness. Holding onto the wall, he brushed his fingers over the crystals that illuminated the room, and tried to wiggle one loose to no avail.
The surface beneath his fingers was smooth, lacking the coarseness of sandstone, and he imagined the rivers that might have carved out this cavern. How old was this world? Eyes peered at him from hidden shadows and his stomach grew queasier.
“45482. Do you give your water upon death to 78435?” The Shan'ka's raspy voice startled John. Their stealth would make Ronon envious.
“What does a guy have to do to get these first class accommodations?”
Lyle held himself stiffly, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was the poster child for pent up tension and it couldn’t be a good sign that Mr. Laid Back was ready to bolt. The Shan'ka waited and there really was no way to tell them apart. Of course, there was only enough light for a cat.
“Okay, no small talk. Got it. Yeah, I agree.”
The Shan'ka were deceptively quick. Clammy hands grabbed John's jaw, again, forcing it open and another damn tube was scraped over his tongue.
“I would've spit on it if you wanted me to,” John griped, trying to wet his mouth and failing. “You can collect DNA from hair. I've got plenty of that.”
The Shan'ka ignored him, wordlessly handing over what had to be a sample of his saliva to Lyle.
“We must go,” Lyle said, grabbing John's arm and dragging him away.
John memorized the route outside and shielded his eyes when they reached the exit. Business was brisk for the Shan'ka. People carried armfuls of plant material and sacks that wiggled with the struggles of whatever was trapped inside, waiting to be converted into water.
“You live far? Because--”
The sight of a limp body being dragged by two men caused John's thoughts to go off the rails. His heart slowly regained a normal rhythm after noticing the small size of the unconscious man. It wasn't Ronon.
“You're still alive.”
John's head snapped up at the voice. Damn. He didn't need this.
Kadar slowly circled him much like an alpha dog. “Went in for an exchange, huh?”
“Just taking a stroll.” John shrugged, resting his hand on his knife. “And you?”
“Making a claim. Something you'll learn soon enough.”
Time was ticking and getting involved in a cockfight wasn't on the agenda. John started to walk away, never taking his eyes off Kadar. With a glance at the body, he noticed the raspy wheeze and the yellow headband of the guy who'd helped him. “Hey, he's still alive.”
“Not for long.”
John got into Kadar's face. “He's still breathing.”
“He cannot stand,” the Spraza said dismissively. “His arm is badly broken. He is not able bodied.”
“He didn't have a broken arm earlier!”
Kadar’s minions dropped the dying man with a thunk. John went for his weapon, but Kadar held his men back. “No need, boys. Wouldn't want any of you to get hurt.” His smirk widened. “This is what happens to the weak, my friend. They fall victim to thieves and scavengers. The Shan'ka will examine this poor dod. When they see the severity of the injury, they will follow the law.”
John could barely contain his anger. The odds were the guy would have died soon enough. But that didn't mean that a bunch of thugs should be allowed to speed up the process.
“Does it make you feel tough to break the arm of someone who can't fight back?”
“It is time to leave. We have business,” Lyle spoke, stepping up before things came to a head.
Kadar played with his braided beard. “Lyle, my good friend. You have dealings with this newcomer? You do realize that he belongs to me.”
It was a risk to announce their association out loud; then again it was obvious the merchant was with him. “We just finished some paperwork on a deal. Crossed all the Ts. Dotted the Is on a future claim.” It was fun to watch the gang leader's face screw up in confusion. “See. In the event of my death, Lyle has claim to my water. This means if I were to have an accident, you don’t get a drop.”
Kadar looked like he was trying to set him on fire from behind his goggles. John didn't want to abandon the guy from the desert, but he looked at his sprawled form and knew things were not quite right. Bending down for a pulse, he felt nothing.
“Going to the transports is dangerous. You might want to be careful. And your pal. Who is watching him?” Kadar pointed at the dead man and his goons picked up the body and went on their way without hesitation.
Just another death in the desert. John reluctantly watched them walk away, fighting the urge to go after them.
“Very well played, Sheppard. The Spraza cannot claim your water if I own it.”
That hadn't been the point, but he'd take the unintentional benefits. John went to smooth things over when Lyle broke into his personal space. “It might buy you some time. Why risk killing someone if you can't have their water?”
“It has its advantages.”
Lyle got even closer if that was possible, his fragrant oil unable to mask his pungent smell. “Don't forget that it makes no difference. The desert, the Spraza. If you die, it all goes to me.”
It took everything in John's power to give one of his cocky grins. “Unless I outlive you.”
Medena was a land shrouded in secrets. Desert sands wiped away all traces of her history and a void promised mysteries within a great darkness. Roaming gangs survived using deceit and obeyed the laws of ghosts hidden beneath blue robes. Even Lyle concealed small truths, from his business deals with all those who fought for their slice of power, to the contents inside his cave. He'd forced John to simmer in the heat for an eternity before finally returning with the promised rations.
Now back in their impromptu ‘home’, John chewed on something that tasted like a cross between a radish and a carrot, the measurement of his life reduced to the contents of a knapsack. He wanted to devour all of the roots and mentally had to tell himself to slow down. His mouth was on autopilot, starting to eat the next vegetable before he’d swallowed the first one. “This actually isn't half bad.”
Ronon didn't hold back, powering down his rationed portion in minutes. “Where did you get them?”
“Hey, careful. Don't eat your hand,” John said, watching his friend lick the residue from his fingers.
They both eyed the knapsack, their stomachs loudly digesting dinner. It was a blessing in disguise that Lyle didn't have any meat; eating more undercooked food would likely lead to other health problems.
John munched on the last root, his belly craving more. “Hope you like this stuff; couldn't get much variety.”
“I've been hungry before,” Ronon reminded him.
“I know.”
“You gave me the biggest ones.”
“You're a bigger guy.”
Ronon slammed his fist on the wall in rage. The simple outburst left him exhausted and shaking, hurting John at his core to bear witness to his deterioration.
John allowed his friend to let it out, to exorcise all that pent up frustration. Then he busied himself cleaning up their area; there was no such thing as privacy, just the silent promise never to mention the things normally expressed alone.
Ronon had bitten away his fingernails to keep from scratching at his skin, but the rash was active bacteria and practically covered him head to toe. “What did you trade for the food?
John gave his friend the dunka of water. “Drink some of this. I'll get more tomorrow.”
Ronon's hands trembled while he stared at the alien lettering on the outside of the small container. John steadied the pouch after Ronon almost dropped it, helping him take a few sips.
“Why aren't you answering my questions?”
Because ignorance was bliss. John dug through the foodstuffs and pulled out a clump of bulbous roots. “Here, try these. They remind me of Brussels sprouts. Hated those as a kid.”
Ronon didn't grab them.
“You need to eat more.”
“I'm not taking a larger share.”
“I'm not asking.” John wasn't about to back down, but Ronon was as pigheaded as they came. “If I was injured or sick, you'd tell me to shut up and eat. Or force it down my throat. Don't make me do the latter.”
“You couldn't.”
But John could. That was the problem. “Please, Ronon. I'll order you.”
“Sheppard.”
“You need to regain your strength. When you're back on your feet, we'll find a way off this rock. I need you on my six, buddy.” Playing the loyalty card was low, but it was the truth.
Ronon took the sprouts, sniffed the tops and shoved them in his mouth, not caring about manners. “You...gonna...tell me...the truth?” he asked in between chewing.
“No.”
If he didn't answer, it wasn't really lying.
John had an intimate relationship with pain, understood the complexity of living with it. Ronon couldn't seduce or make a deal with it. And the one thing about pain: it hated being ignored. His teammate was losing the battle no matter how hard he fought. John never fell asleep; he merely drifted between states of consciousness. They took turns keeping watch, but it was difficult to relax when your friend was in constant agony.
John gathered his things and crawled over to where Ronon lay. “I'm going to get today's water. But I want you to eat before I leave.”
Cutting away a section of his shirt, he used the knife to smash a double sized portion of roots into a baby food substance to make it easier to spoon feed. Breakfast was gathered in the makeshift cloth plate and he helped ease Ronon into a sitting position to eat.
Ronon used his fingers to scoop the mash into his mouth. “I'm sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” John gave him the mostly empty dunka pouch. “There's enough until I get back. It‘s better to take a few sips every few minutes than a lot all at once.
“Sheppard.”
“I'll be fine.”
The second exchange went as horribly as the first one. John gritted his teeth when the Shan'ka used their version of a band-aid and he threw up the carrot-turnip things all over the floor. The vertigo was so bad that he dug his fingers into his temples, wishing they’d go straight into his brain.
“45482.”
The voice sounded like one of those devices that people with laryngectomies used against their vocal cords. “Gimme a second,” John rasped before dry heaving again.
Crawling on the ground was a good start but left a bad impression. John staggered to his feet; the blue-robed goon squad added to the ring of bruises on his biceps and hauled him up. They took a different way out and for a frightening second John imagined that they were taking him to be embalmed alive.
Dumped outside another chamber, John curled on his side, waiting for the cramps to subside and his vision to clear.
The orris fumes from the den hit him and the rawboned dealer from his first encounter scurried over like an insect. “Knew you'd be back.”
“Said I wasn't interested.”
John stay slumped against the wall so the dealer took that as an invitation, kneeling down next to him. God, the guy smelled like he rolled around in the stuff.
“You're hurting, friend. Your belly is sick. Empty. Orris will help.”
“Will...will it help with pain?”
“If you smoke enough, it'll make you forget all about it.”
John lurched to his feet, his legs buckling from the sudden movement. The dealer grabbed onto him and John shoved him away, losing his balance in the process. “Get off me!” he snapped, clutching the wall.
What an idiotic idea! Orris wouldn't help Ronon. Even considering the idea was evidence of his poor sense of judgment. John scrubbed a hand over his scruffy beard, resisting the urge to scrape his nails across his rash-covered neck. His entire body felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, and he yanked down his shirt collar, revealing a blotchy, reddened chest.
There was something wrong when he crawled back inside their hole.
It was silent.
“Ronon? Buddy!”
John scrambled toward his unmoving friend, searched for a pulse that was fast and thready beneath his fingers. Satisfied that the bigger man was alive, he took the opportunity to examine Ronon's broken leg. Carefully, he removed the BDUs that provided the weakest of splints and was horrified at a limb covered in yellow, blue and black bruises; the bone uneven and swollen from not healing properly.
Damn it!
“Sheppard?”
“Hey, right here.”
Ronon sat up frantically. “Did I fall asleep?”
“Only for a short while. How are you feeling? Think you could eat something?”
“I didn't mean to,” Ronon mumbled.
John gathered a mix of sprouts and roots and started to smash them together, mixing in most of his share for the day, knowing his teammate needed the nourishment.
“Here. Let's see if you've still got an appetite.”
Ronon may have been half out of it from pain, but he still knew how to suck down dinner. Or breakfast. Who could tell at this point? John ate what remained of the day's ration, lost in thought.
“I need to--”
“You need to rest,” John informed him. “You can take the next shift.”
Fighting injuries without basic treatment had a way of creeping up on the strongest of people. John should have seen this coming. Force of will could only do so much.
Ronon put up a token resistance, mumbling about staying awake before his eyes drifted closed. Confidence was one of John's pillars of strength and it lay crumbled beneath him.
Lay down. Sleep. Take the simple way out and wallow in the darkness. It'd be easy. But the transport would come tomorrow. Could he carry the water this time? Would be able to fight to get it?
The dunka was still stored away in his knapsack and the last thing he wanted to do was rifle through it. John slipped his hand inside, pulled out the precious water, but his fingers brushed against something that didn't belong there. Many thin sharp somethings. Barbed. Like pine needles.
They crushed easily between his fingers, producing a slight oily film and a strong scent. That skinny rat bastard!
John was seconds from grinding the orris into dust, but he hesitated, caught between principles and a ravenous stomach. If he owned a rabbit's foot and had a pet leprechaun, his chances at getting a decent amount of water were slim to none.
Not to mention the limited food supply or the mortgage on his life. Bottom line, Ronon would require more food, more water to have a fighting chance. John glared at the orris. How many times had McKay drunk pots of coffee to keep working? How many times had John used stimulants on duty during an emergency, logging countless hours in the sky or fighting on the ground?
When did the line start to blur?
If a small amount kept the hunger at bay until Ronon could get a fighting chance, then so be it. Counting out a hundred tiny needles, he pinched away ten, slipping the rest inside the thin piece of cloth. Smoking it was out of the question and it wasn't like he had a lighter handy, so lacking another avenue he popped them into his mouth.
They were bitter tasting; he chewed them quickly and washed things down with a swig of lukewarm water.
Nothing happened. Not that he expected a magical chemical reaction. His head throbbed, every inch of his body felt like a piece of roadkill. The cave granted a certain amount of mercy from the ugliness of outside, and John curled up on his side, the heat lulling him to sleep.
John walked in a daze, not bothering to run, the transport engines a dull rumble behind his eardrums. The ship, the screaming and shouting were all one large distraction to his mission. If he blocked out all the noise, it made things less real. He was almost at his destination, distance and time a single disconnect. John glanced behind his back, images of helping Ronon eat and drink when he woke up a hazy dream.
His true nightmare loomed ahead, shrouded in sunlight and miles of sand. His skin was stretched tightly over his body, the newest blisters reminding him of shriveled up blue scales and scabs. He remembered being told not to scratch and restraints that kept him from gouging long trails down his arms. John held out his hands in front of his face and pretended they belonged to someone else.
It helped imagining that it was a stranger in line at the least crowded faucet. Teeth, nails, and fists didn't hurt as much. John gave as much as he received, returned punches without holding back. He didn't think; he didn't feel. He couldn't afford to. John had to give it his all because he didn't have any blood left to give.
The tank ran dry after he filled his first pouch and he unsheathed his knife. “Move,” he growled.
John reckoned he looked a little wild, a little crazy. Maybe he was. He felt like it. No one wanted to screw with a lunatic whose brain was baked by the sun and who knew how to use a blade.
Except people who cared even less.
They rushed him, three sets of hands. Three uncoordinated attacks. John went limp, surprising the thieves. Once on the ground, their lower legs made easy targets. He lashed out, smashing the nearest kneecap with his boot and jabbing his knife into the closest ankle.
Both men went down, leaving the third. John saw the rock bearing toward his skull and he rolled out of the way. The third thief smashed the spot where his face had been and brought the stone up for another try.
John threw the knife out of instinct and the blade struck the guy in the chest. His two buddies staggered to their feet, took one look at their pal, and limped away as fast as they could.
The lone thief sank to his knees and stared at the blade protruding above his heart, the front of his robe already soaked with blood. John crouched next to the prisoner who gurgled and coughed a fine spray of crimson onto his shirt.
“Fin...finish me off.”
“No. I'll...I'll…” What could John do? Call for help? Bandage a four inch chest wound?
The thief ripped away his goggles, revealing a formerly young face aged beyond his years. “Please...make sure I'm dead... Be...before they...c-come.”
John knew who 'they' were, already saw them off in the distance, the sun reflecting off their blue robes. A twist of the blade would be merciful.
Without warning the thief thrust the knife deeper into his chest, doing the deed himself. John stared as the man's life poured out of him. The thief took one last gasp and slumped to the ground. Then there was nothing. Just vacant eyes.
John checked for a pulse and, after finding none, slowly closed the lids. When he looked up, the Shan'ka were there, staring back. John pulled out the knife, wiped the blade onto his pants and scooped up some sand to wipe his hands clean.
Four Shan'ka made quick work of the body, stripping away the thief's clothes and rolling him up into a tarp. One of the Shan'ka folded up the garments, retrieved the dead man's water pouch and handed them over and once again a smaller figure hurried over, inclining his head to the larger Shan'ka and turned to John. “We have deemed this a clean death. 44782's possessions belong to you,” he spoke in a normal voice.
John slung the second pouch over his shoulder, rolled up the man's clothes and stuffed them under his arm. The Shan'ka gathered up all the blood splattered sand, making sure not a single bit was wasted.
There were still others out there. Other thieves, other gangs, other desperate people. But they wouldn't go after him today. Not with blood so fresh on his shirt that it would came away wet on his fingers. Not after the Shan'ka transferred another man's water to him.
John came out here half out of his mind and would return with double the water, double a chance for Ronon's survival. There was less of a disconnect than at the start of his mission. But he wished for that detachment. It'd make the stench of death easier to ignore and would allow him to pretend again.
To keep him from feeling anything at all when he killed a man and happily walked away with his water.
Ronon always had an eye for patterns. An artist's eye like his mother's. She’d spent a lifetime in front of a canvas, recreating her dreams. And providing for her family, knitting the blankets on their beds and the curtains that hung in the windows.
He’d spent hours helping mix oil paints and dyeing fabrics, soaking up every stitch, every dab of the brush. His mother had taught him how to blend colors to discover new ones and how any mistake could be turned into something beautiful. Her art was the hidden world of the abstract, the secrets between shapes and form. Ronon painted what he saw, the reality of their world. And even took up the needle to sew his own clothes, and the hammer to build the tables they ate on and the chairs they sat in.
All Satedan children were taught the legend of Kosk, their greatest warrior. When Ronon was a kid he’d illustrated those triumphs in blacks and whites. At age ten, he’d looked beyond the words and studied Kosk's battle tactics. There were patterns in war, too. The lines of troop movements, the strategy and models behind engagements.
Ronon had entered the Academy like all fourteen year-old males. His taskmaster had recognized Ronon's ability to see the fine art of combat. Kell had honed those skills. Fingers that used to weave elaborate designs, learned how to swing the blade, and his palette became the blood of his enemies.
On his nineteenth birthday, Ronon had chosen to stay with his unit, following in the steps of his father and older brother.
Lorena couldn't conceal her disappointment, but had still hugged him tightly, trying to hide her tears. She was a teacher and her son had passed on a chance to study at the University. On Sateda most men joined the ranks of military, but those who could beautify their world held a special honor.
“You could share your gifts with others,” she’d argued.
“If there's no Sateda, there'll be nothing left to share.”
“If nothing preserves our culture, then we might not as well have existed.”
“I don't deserve to be a Satedan if I'm not willing to protect my people. Actions define us. Not what we leave behind.”
It was a shock to wake up from fever dreams, picturing his mother's paintings in the rocky ceiling above. Ronon blinked upwards in the darkness, clawing the ground with the nubs of his fingernails. He wished for his knife, to pick it up and slice off his skin, or plunge it into his leg.
“Pathetic,” Kell's voice echoed in his head. “We live to serve.”
His duty was to his team, to his CO. It was all he had left.
Scouring for ants had made him useful. They were all gone now, all the digging and searching for their burrows coming up empty. He was too weak to move or look for them in other parts of the cave, leaving him to slowly broil alive.
Sheppard finally returned to the cave and was covered by the stench of blood. Ronon ignored the blinding pain of his leg and forced himself to sit up. His vision swam, and he blindly reached out for his friend. “Sheppard?”
“It's...it's not mine,” Sheppard rasped, slumping against the cave wall, his breaths fast and shallow. “I've got us an entire thing of water.”
A whole pouch was unfathomable, the difference between taking ten and fifty sips. Ronon resisted the urge to grab it, to squeeze the water down his throat and splash it all over his burning face. Sheppard didn't talk about ways to ration it, or joke about why he had 'to cook'.
Maybe he'd dreamed of his friend's return, his mind lost between the present and the past. But the stench of death was overpowering in the small confines of the cave, and the nausea abated enough for him to take in Sheppard's sorry state.
“You should take your shirt off and put it outside. Let the sun dry it,” Ronon suggested.
“Good idea,” Sheppard said absently, shrugging out of the baggy thing. “I've got a new one now.”
Ronon didn't ask about the clothes, grabbing the second shirt and scraping the bloodstains over the ground. “You'll need to take this one out there, too.”
Sheppard crawled to the entrance, the sunlight exposing the toll of their lack of food on his leaner frame. He returned bare-chested, leaving nothing to conceal the fresh blues and fading yellow bruises of fights endured alone. It was the first time Ronon noticed the restraining marks around Sheppard's biceps, or the strange healing scars on the inside of his arms.
“I'll make something to eat,” Sheppard said, after he caught Ronon staring at him.
There was something off about his voice, but Ronon's thoughts were scrambled by his body's plight. Sheppard steadied Ronon's shoulders and held the water to his lips, fed him when his arms trembled too much to lift on their own.
Sheppard fell asleep in the middle of drinking his own ration of water, the dunka balanced between his knees.
“Wake up,” Ronon grunted.
“M'mm tir'd.”
“I know, but you need to drink that.”
“Yeah.”
But Sheppard didn't budge and Ronon couldn't make him no matter how hard he tried.
The Great Hall had stood for six hundred years. The Central Plaza had survived the land quake of his Ronon's youth, and even the bridges between the city and country side had endured two civil wars.
The Wraith had reduced everything to dust in hours.
He would return to Sateda to mark holidays or times of tradition. Other visits were more personal, including the search for the family home his great-grandfather had built. It'd been difficult to pinpoint the exact location. It was just intuition, a tingle in his gut that a particular patch of rubble had been the floor where he’d played as a child. There was nothing left, of course, not even the foundation.
What had become of his world's greatest treasures? Of its amazing culture?
A year ago he’d found the art museum where his mother had volunteered and brought back the shattered pieces of several masterpieces. In his spare time he’d tried restoring the paintings, beginning with the one of Sateda's victory at Greadstand that hung on his wall.
He could have taken up the brush for the rest of his life, but had taken up the gun. Ronon wanted to defend his people; when he failed doing that, he did the next best thing.
Killed the Wraith.
“A warrior lives to fight,” Kell had taught him.
Ronon startled awake, but the fists he tried to swing were too heavy to use.
“Easy, buddy. It's just me.”
Sheppard's face blurred into view and it took Ronon a moment to gain his bearings. For the heat and pain to grasp him in their iron grips. “You're awake...I thought...I wasn't sure...”
“I'm fine,” Sheppard downplayed any worry.
“What's our status?”
“Two more days ‘til the next transport. There's enough water and food until then.” Sheppard's voice was haggard and his gaze drifted around the cave as if he couldn't focus on a single spot for too long.
“You don't look good,” Ronon commented.
Sheppard didn't say a word. He grabbed the water pouch and transferred a small amount into the more manageable dunka, running fingers over the alien symbols painted on the outside. Ronon hadn't recalled those before. “Where did you get that one?”
“From a trade,” Sheppard replied absently, holding the dunka to Ronon's mouth and supporting his head to drink.
He tried to control how fast he gulped the tiny dribble and tried not to drink it all. “I'm good,” Ronon lied.
“You need the fluids.”
“I'm not taking a bigger portion.”
“I can get more.”
“From where?” Ronon waited for an answer that never came.
Instead his CO rummaged through their food supplies. “Hope you're not tired of mashed roots.”
Ronon was tired of being ignored, but lacked the stamina to argue. It was hard enough struggling against all the memories and voices that wanted to drag him away. Digging his palm into his eyes, he sought a center between sickness and injury.
It was taking a long time for Sheppard to prepare the meal. Ronon propped himself on one elbow and gazed over. “John?” Sheppard looked up from where he'd been smashing the roots repeatedly. “I think they're done,” Ronon told him.
Sheppard stared at the smear of food at the bottom of the knife handle in a daze. “Oh. I forgot what I was doing.”
They ate in silence for the rest of the meal.
Ronon still admired art. Random paintings on random halls. Sculptures that guarded entrances or various gardens. He didn't try to hide this side from others; he just didn't want to share it. There was a difference. It had nothing to do with his past and more to do with a life he'd walked away from.
When he was on other worlds, his eyes sought out danger, hidden movement, concealed weapons. “Don't trust your eyes,” his training dictated. The Saurin had pinged on his radar from day one. He ignored what they wanted him to see and searched for what they didn't show him. He found himself in a hundred similar rooms, struck by the intricacy of the symbols scrawled all over the walls.
Every hall and room was minimal and sparse. Each exactly like the other. Except for the designs. Silver lettering etched on smooth black walls.
“Cool looking, huh?” Sheppard asked.
“Yeah.”
“Something wrong?”
“I recognize this,” Ronon said, tracing over the lines.
“I thought they were just decoration?”
“That's what the Saurin told us.”
“But?”
“It's everywhere. But the closer we get to important parts of the city, the markings get weirder.” Ronon closed his eyes, finger gliding up and over, and into a semi-circle. “You always use a plain background to draw attention to the important stuff,” he said, copying the pattern.
There, in the third loop. The symbols were connected, one line merging with the next. That was the problem. All the hash marks had been stripped away. He opened fresh eyes and they burned in anger. “I know what this is.”
Sheppard tensed next to him and lowered his voice. “What?”
“This whole city has the Wraith language written all over it.”
Ronon dreamed of ocean waves, of the salt in the air and the bright sun overhead. He shielded his eyes against the orange glare and waded into the waters, the mist spraying his face. The drops were soothing ice cubes over his skin. By cupping his hands, he scooped up the sea and splashed it over his chest. Savoring it all.
He wanted more.
“Hey, buddy.”
The mainland was engulfed by blackness and Ronon blinked droplets out of his eyes. “What?” he asked, wiping the wetness from his face in shock.
Sheppard pressed a cloth to Ronon's forehead. “Your fever's spiked. Lie still.”
The fabric was paradise and Ronon felt himself melt in relief, his raw skin greedily soaking up all the moisture. Except this was water. And they didn't have any to spare.
His eyes shot open and somehow Ronon snagged Sheppard's wrist. “Don't.”
“Ronon.”
The fire burning beneath his flesh raged through all his pores, but it didn't matter. He channeled what little strength remained into his fingers and squeezed. “You're wastin' it.”
“No. I'm not.”
“Stop.”
“Can't do that.”
Words were pointless so Ronon tightened his hold until his whole arm shook from the strain.
Sheppard pulled the piece of fabric away.
It took a while before Ronon noticed the strips of cloth wrapped around his forearms and he stared at them.
“You clawed open your skin in your sleep. The sores are infected. I cleaned them the best I could,” Sheppard explained.
Another waste of water.
“How much do we have left?”
“Enough.”
Ronon didn't buy it. “You used some of your share on me.”
“I can get more.”
That was the second time he'd heard that. “What have you been doing?”
“Whatever I have to.”
Hands that would have never gotten near him in the past supported Ronon's neck, guided liquid and food down his throat and dripped water across his ravaged skin. He growled and snapped at them and they still ignored his wishes to leave him alone.
When the hands were gone, silence swept Ronon away. Silence was peaceful, but peaceful wasn't good. Peace was the feeling danger hid behind, to attack when you weren't looking. The quiet stretched on too long and he opened both his pupils, focusing on a familiar shape huddle nearby.
Sheppard was curled on his side, hands wrapped up in the folds of the other shirt to keep from scratching his own skin. He wasn't asleep; his body trembled and jerked when the muscle cramps struck repeatedly. Normally Sheppard dragged himself to the back of the cave to suffer silently in the dark. The fact that he hadn't, that lethargy had beaten back Sheppard's intense need for privacy scared Ronon. Of course his team leader hadn't noticed Ronon's emergence from his fever's stranglehold before slipping away again.
Ronon could tell he'd slept for a long time because his stomach had grown accustomed to the half-days between meals. It took a long time to rouse Sheppard and panic squeezed his chest.
Ronon argued when Sheppard reapplied the wet strips of cloth to his arms. The whole thing felt like a dream and he fought to stay awake, to overcome the comfort his friend tried to provide. Sheppard didn't understand the danger it represented, or feel its claws dig in deeper.
The transport engines roared overhead and Ronon woke to Sheppard's quick squeeze of his arm, “I'm going to get our rations.”
Ronon managed to haul himself up by using his arms and pressed his cheek to the wall, wondering where the days went. Pressing down on the injured bone in his leg, he welcomed the sharp influx of pain. It was a temporary fix, one that consumed one type of energy over another. But it worked and he kept doing it to keep his mind's sluggishness at bay.
He was more alert when Sheppard returned, aware of the newest signs of battle.
“Hey,” Sheppard greeted, his chest heaving as if he'd run back the whole way. “Good to see you up.”
“Sit down,” Ronon replied.
Sheppard didn't comply right away, eyes darting around the cave. His friend had changed out of Ronon's baggy trousers; the stranger's pair fit more snugly around his waist. Sheppard's blade was stained red, matching the random streaks on the front of his shirt and down the sides of his pants.
“Any of that yours?” Ronon asked.
“No.” Sheppard shook his head as if to clear it. “I didn't kill anyone,” he said as an afterthought, slipping down to the ground. His normally sharp eyes were dull and flat. “At least I don't think I did.”
“Were you jumped?”
Sheppard still held the knife, the vein in his throat throbbing madly. “I don't know.” His expression was more confused than scared and when he glanced at Ronon, his voice was devoid of any emotion. “It doesn't matter. Does it?”
Ronon didn't know how to reply to such an unSheppard-like question. So he didn't, pushing on the broken bone until his jaw clamped shut to keep away the building scream.
“I almost got another full pouch...I.” Sheppard paused. “There were some problems getting near the tank but I made them go away.”
The pain thing wasn't working anymore no matter how hard he pressed. Ronon closed his eyes in defeat, cursing himself for failure. Sheppard stayed propped up against the cave wall next to him, breathing way too fast. One hand still held the knife in a death grip; the other was balled into a trembling fist.
Ronon couldn't help with whatever was ever wrong with Sheppard and didn't even have enough energy to fight the illness that was starting to win.
The fever spiked no matter how much water Sheppard wasted on him. Ronon begged him to stop, pleaded to save the rest. “You're killing yourself,” Ronon rasped.
Sheppard looked half-dead and half insane. His wild beard and disheveled hair stuck out in all directions, giving him a manic appearance. The heat rash had spread from his neck to his cheeks, and his eyes were sunken into his skull.
“I'm fine.”
“I don't want you...to die, too.”
“You're not gonna die.”
“Yes, I am. You need to leave, make an alliance with someone.”
“I'm going to get you medicine,” Sheppard said, shaking Ronon's shoulder. “You hear me?”
“With what?”
“I'll find something.”
Ronon grabbed Sheppard's hand. “Don't.” There wasn't enough moisture left his eyes to produce tears. “Please, John.”
Sheppard wouldn't listen to him and gathered his knapsack for his trip outside. “I have an idea, don't worry. Hang on, buddy,” he said, leaving.
Ronon screamed at his friend's retreating form.
Kell crouched beside him some time later. “Who are you?” he asked in disdain. “Where is Specialist Dex? Where is the Satedan whose face you wear?”
“I'm right here!” Ronon yelled back.
“No, you're not. Dex wouldn't be lying there. He'd be fulfilling his duty. He would do what's right.”
Ronon had always watched Sheppard's back, willing to follow him to hell. They were there now, caught in the roaring flames. But they weren't fighting the way it should be. Ronon was trapped on one side of the flames and Sheppard wouldn't take the exit on his.
Sheppard needed to run away, but the fires were going to burn him alive if he didn't move.
Ronon knew Sheppard would die trying to save him.
And he couldn't allow that to happen.
Ronon screamed and yelled and cried over every inch he dragged his broken body. The pain felt good; it gave him the motivation to keep pushing and keep moving. He’d never strayed too far from the mouth of the cave, needing the light that crept in to see by. There was no telling how long it took him to reach the opening or the number of times he almost passed out from trying.
There was bound to be something sharp enough out there to do what he needed to. If not, the sun would take care of things quickly. Sheppard would need the cave and Ronon didn't want punish him even more by having to remove his body.
He hoped deep inside John would forgive him, that he wasn't taking the coward's way out. Ronon would rather die with a gun in his hand, but if his last act saved Sheppard, then the death was honorable.
It was hotter and brighter then he remembered it. Ronon used his last bit of strength to grip the nearest hunk of rock and closed his eyes and took a deep breath before completing the act he set out to do.
----
“Chapter Four”
Author:Kristen999
Word Count: 125,000~
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Gen, Drama, Action, H/C
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence and coarse language
Summary: Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.
Notes: This is not a WIP. A chapter will be posted every other day until complete.
I wanted to thank
d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice during the writing of this. I also wanted to thank my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together. “Previous Chapters”
Feedback is always appreciated.
-------
Something that appeared more like a straw than a needle had been jammed into the crook of John's elbow; his blood drained loudly into a container that hung beside him. The room was cast in mystery, the light from the crystals doing little to expose its secrets. The whole chamber felt like a morgue or Doctor Frankenstein's lab with him a willing participant in an ongoing experiment.
The sound of his blood rattling the container set his teeth on edge. He let his eyelids flutter closed and his body surrender to lethargy and pain. He teetered on the brink of awareness and tried to blink away the halos in his vision.
It was visceral, watching his strength bleed away, as his arms twitched instinctively against the straps. With his energy gone there was nothing left to fight the hunger that he’d kept at bay, and now it clawed at his insides.
The blood merchant waited quietly nearby, like a vulture, as John’s life continued to pour into the container. A strange figure, nothing like the eerily robed Shan’ka, entered the room and joined the other, leaning in closely to speak.
They probably think you're unconscious.
“No need for you... to be here,” the Shan'ka's voice vibrated with anger.
“Just making sure you uphold your end of the deal. I think you've been holding back on me lately. Can't have that,” a deep voice replied calmly.
“Our word is law. We... do not break agreements.”
“Why don't I believe you?”
John cracked his eyes open to mere slits, allowing him a view of the fuzzy outlines of the two figures.
The Shan'ka's words buzzed in and out. “You have...job....keep the...in the Void....”
“Be sure...to....blood samples....”
The conversation faded into the background as white noise filled his head and he fell deeper into the haze. Then a pale, blurry face peered down at him. “We are done. Be still,” the Shan'ka instructed.
The needle was plucked out and blood quickly welled up into the hole. The merchant turned to one of his blue-robed brethren who silently handed over an object. John noticed the burning smell, but it wasn't until the Shan'ka held up a rod that he realized what was going to happen next.
“We must seal the wound. No drops should be lost.”
John could barely hold back the scream as the heated tip cauterized the puncture. He'd barely recovered from the sterilization when his bonds were removed and the ground rushed up to meet him. His feet refused to hold his weight, and his addled mind was unable to figure up from down. Vertigo triggered a round of dry heaving, sending him to his hands and knees.
“The exchange is complete, 45482.”
“Goody, another assigned number.” Hands hauled John upright, and his boot toes dragged on the floor before barely gaining purchase. “What?... No juice and cookies?”
John wanted to die. Giving blood when already so dehydrated had been a giant risk and he wasn’t coping like he needed to. But he had to walk on his own power in front of the blood merchants or risk being seen as too weak to survive.
“Easy boys,” he grunted when his left shoulder slammed into a corner.
Steel-boned hands let him go and he almost failed to keep himself upright before grabbing the wall to steady himself.
A Shan'ka appeared from out of nowhere handing him a small pouch with blue alien lettering on it. “Your dunka of water.”
John tried not to vomit on the merchant’s boots. “Gee, thanks.”
He funneled all his focus on the pouch, stuffing it in the knapsack he’d almost forgotten was around his shoulder.
The Shan'ka's opaque eyes bored into him. “We will see you again.”
“Maybe,” John quipped with an answer that would make him right either way.
As the Shan'ka slipped back into the darkness, John stayed clinging desperately to the wall, knowing if he let go of it he'd be part of the floor. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he finally loosened his grip and headed for a faint light at the end of the narrow cavern. It wasn't the way he'd come in, but he heard voices and followed them out of the Hall of Horrors.
The aroma of food hit his nose and his stomach growled and clenched with anticipation of being filled. Seconds later nausea tore through his gut and doubled him over. He stumbled toward a corner, only the wall controlling his slide to the floor.
Get a grip, John. You have to do this again tomorrow.
People filled the next chamber he entered. They were bleary-eyed and hopeless, haggling trinkets and other things to anyone who'd listen. Many were turned away and forced to seek the Shan'ka for an exchange.
His stomach rumbled again and John realized how truly fucked he was. He had one dunka of water and nothing left to trade. They needed food; hell, Ronon needed a lot of food. And medicine, if medicine existed. If there were opiates, there might be other drugs. Staring at his boots, he wondered if his feet could handle the rough desert terrain without protection.
“Did you go in there?”
John schooled his features, hoping not to show how relieved he was at seeing a relatively friendly face. “Yeah.” He hadn’t seen Lyle enter the cavern. Which meant he had come out the exit. “What were you doing there?”
“I have business with the Shan'ka.”
“Really. What kind?” John's voice was hostile, but he felt like twenty miles of dead road and needed a target.
Lyle squatted down next to him, removed his dirty-orange turban, and scratched his head. He was a tough nut to crack; a face weathered by the sun obscured his true age. The beard misleading. Early fifties perhaps? But under the simple business façade was a quick mind. “I have things they desire.”
The merchant scraped at his scalp absently and John resisted the urge to rub his nails over the red splotches on his arms. “What do they want?”
Lyle's eyes darkened. “Nothing you need to know about.” Then his expression softened into its usual grin, reminding John of McKay when he thought he'd discovered some new kind of tech. “You have anything to trade? You look like you need to,” he said, reaching for John's knapsack.
“Touch it and I'll kill you.”
Lyle chuckled, unintimidated. “Maybe. But I'm not going to take your water, stranger. It is forbidden to steal from an exchange. That belongs to the Shan'ka. You’re only borrowing it.”
“What do they do? Recycle the blood?”
“They extract the water from it. Give you two-thirds of what they harvest and keep the rest. The Shan'ka can take water from almost anything. They are the reason we survive,” he said, almost in admiration.
John knew all you needed was an elaborate centrifuge of some kind to separate all the parts of the blood. But where did they get the technology? And how?
He rubbed his eyes as pain spiked through his temples. “Why obey them?”
“They control the balance. Without them, there’s not enough water to drink or to use for food or trade. ”
“Supply and demand meets Darwin,” John muttered.
“Water is the key to life; it is sacred. The Saurin do not bring enough for all. The Shan'ka control the transformation of water. So they control us.” Yeah, there was admiration there, even respect. Lyle rolled another a cigarette with uncalloused hands inexperienced to physical labor.
“Then the easiest way to get water is to kill.”
“We are not allowed to take a life; the punishment is worse than any death. But if one is not of able body, then they can be claimed. Without the Shan'ka we would kill each other and no one would live.”
John wondered if that was the Spraza's real source of wealth. Find the strongest to join their gang and pick off the weak in the process. Like some sick black market trade. “Is that why people don't steal all my water when I get jumped? Some weird honor code?”
“If you’re not able to keep your water, then you deserve to have it taken. But you must be left with just enough for a chance. The desert kills enough; we need people to hunt and farm. To make and barter what is needed. To complete the cycle.”
What if the water didn't show up when it was supposed to? When did the Spraza and everyone else start hunting down the weak for the only source of viable water for drink or trade?
“Do you have a shop around here?” John asked.
“Why?”
“I need food.”
“I don't have any.”
“But you can get it.”
“Yes. And what are you gonna give me in return?”
John only had one thing. “You can claim me if I die.” The merchant's eyes glinted wildly for a split second and John wondered if this was another bad idea. “You lend me food and water and if I don't live long enough to pay back the debt, you'll make ten times the profit.” Or more.
“I can provide you enough food for eight cycles. I have no water to spare.”
“I'm offering you twenty, thirty, hell, maybe a hundred dunkas of water!” John growled.
“No, you’re giving me nothing,” Lyle’s voice matched John’s intensity. “None of us should ever expect to see tomorrow. You have my offer. Take it or leave it.”
Lyle was no fool. John was the one who couldn't bargain, and he could only assume the trader had little room for charity. “What about medicine?”
“Medicine? Herbs are for the weak. To use it would mean--”
“Humor me.”
“You can only get healing herbs from the Jad and eight cycles of food is not enough for that.”
The news was sobering. John would have to find a way obtain that too, but one thing at a time.
Lyle stood up, adjusting his robe. “We both return to the Shan'ka two times in a cycle and plan on walking back out. Is a rare thing, stranger.”
“Since you'll be carrying around my deed, how about calling me Sheppard?”
“Very well, Sheppard. Shall we conduct our business?”
Returning to the Shan'ka lair revealed little more than the first time. Shan'ka drifted in and out silently—in fact they never spoke aloud to each other. They blended into the darkness, becoming one with it.
John searched for signs of their technology, scouting ways to sneak back in to steal it. There was no evidence that the Shan'ka carried any weapons, but the burly guards posed enough of a threat. It was a challenge to canvass a layout when he constantly battled lightheadedness. Holding onto the wall, he brushed his fingers over the crystals that illuminated the room, and tried to wiggle one loose to no avail.
The surface beneath his fingers was smooth, lacking the coarseness of sandstone, and he imagined the rivers that might have carved out this cavern. How old was this world? Eyes peered at him from hidden shadows and his stomach grew queasier.
“45482. Do you give your water upon death to 78435?” The Shan'ka's raspy voice startled John. Their stealth would make Ronon envious.
“What does a guy have to do to get these first class accommodations?”
Lyle held himself stiffly, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was the poster child for pent up tension and it couldn’t be a good sign that Mr. Laid Back was ready to bolt. The Shan'ka waited and there really was no way to tell them apart. Of course, there was only enough light for a cat.
“Okay, no small talk. Got it. Yeah, I agree.”
The Shan'ka were deceptively quick. Clammy hands grabbed John's jaw, again, forcing it open and another damn tube was scraped over his tongue.
“I would've spit on it if you wanted me to,” John griped, trying to wet his mouth and failing. “You can collect DNA from hair. I've got plenty of that.”
The Shan'ka ignored him, wordlessly handing over what had to be a sample of his saliva to Lyle.
“We must go,” Lyle said, grabbing John's arm and dragging him away.
John memorized the route outside and shielded his eyes when they reached the exit. Business was brisk for the Shan'ka. People carried armfuls of plant material and sacks that wiggled with the struggles of whatever was trapped inside, waiting to be converted into water.
“You live far? Because--”
The sight of a limp body being dragged by two men caused John's thoughts to go off the rails. His heart slowly regained a normal rhythm after noticing the small size of the unconscious man. It wasn't Ronon.
“You're still alive.”
John's head snapped up at the voice. Damn. He didn't need this.
Kadar slowly circled him much like an alpha dog. “Went in for an exchange, huh?”
“Just taking a stroll.” John shrugged, resting his hand on his knife. “And you?”
“Making a claim. Something you'll learn soon enough.”
Time was ticking and getting involved in a cockfight wasn't on the agenda. John started to walk away, never taking his eyes off Kadar. With a glance at the body, he noticed the raspy wheeze and the yellow headband of the guy who'd helped him. “Hey, he's still alive.”
“Not for long.”
John got into Kadar's face. “He's still breathing.”
“He cannot stand,” the Spraza said dismissively. “His arm is badly broken. He is not able bodied.”
“He didn't have a broken arm earlier!”
Kadar’s minions dropped the dying man with a thunk. John went for his weapon, but Kadar held his men back. “No need, boys. Wouldn't want any of you to get hurt.” His smirk widened. “This is what happens to the weak, my friend. They fall victim to thieves and scavengers. The Shan'ka will examine this poor dod. When they see the severity of the injury, they will follow the law.”
John could barely contain his anger. The odds were the guy would have died soon enough. But that didn't mean that a bunch of thugs should be allowed to speed up the process.
“Does it make you feel tough to break the arm of someone who can't fight back?”
“It is time to leave. We have business,” Lyle spoke, stepping up before things came to a head.
Kadar played with his braided beard. “Lyle, my good friend. You have dealings with this newcomer? You do realize that he belongs to me.”
It was a risk to announce their association out loud; then again it was obvious the merchant was with him. “We just finished some paperwork on a deal. Crossed all the Ts. Dotted the Is on a future claim.” It was fun to watch the gang leader's face screw up in confusion. “See. In the event of my death, Lyle has claim to my water. This means if I were to have an accident, you don’t get a drop.”
Kadar looked like he was trying to set him on fire from behind his goggles. John didn't want to abandon the guy from the desert, but he looked at his sprawled form and knew things were not quite right. Bending down for a pulse, he felt nothing.
“Going to the transports is dangerous. You might want to be careful. And your pal. Who is watching him?” Kadar pointed at the dead man and his goons picked up the body and went on their way without hesitation.
Just another death in the desert. John reluctantly watched them walk away, fighting the urge to go after them.
“Very well played, Sheppard. The Spraza cannot claim your water if I own it.”
That hadn't been the point, but he'd take the unintentional benefits. John went to smooth things over when Lyle broke into his personal space. “It might buy you some time. Why risk killing someone if you can't have their water?”
“It has its advantages.”
Lyle got even closer if that was possible, his fragrant oil unable to mask his pungent smell. “Don't forget that it makes no difference. The desert, the Spraza. If you die, it all goes to me.”
It took everything in John's power to give one of his cocky grins. “Unless I outlive you.”
Medena was a land shrouded in secrets. Desert sands wiped away all traces of her history and a void promised mysteries within a great darkness. Roaming gangs survived using deceit and obeyed the laws of ghosts hidden beneath blue robes. Even Lyle concealed small truths, from his business deals with all those who fought for their slice of power, to the contents inside his cave. He'd forced John to simmer in the heat for an eternity before finally returning with the promised rations.
Now back in their impromptu ‘home’, John chewed on something that tasted like a cross between a radish and a carrot, the measurement of his life reduced to the contents of a knapsack. He wanted to devour all of the roots and mentally had to tell himself to slow down. His mouth was on autopilot, starting to eat the next vegetable before he’d swallowed the first one. “This actually isn't half bad.”
Ronon didn't hold back, powering down his rationed portion in minutes. “Where did you get them?”
“Hey, careful. Don't eat your hand,” John said, watching his friend lick the residue from his fingers.
They both eyed the knapsack, their stomachs loudly digesting dinner. It was a blessing in disguise that Lyle didn't have any meat; eating more undercooked food would likely lead to other health problems.
John munched on the last root, his belly craving more. “Hope you like this stuff; couldn't get much variety.”
“I've been hungry before,” Ronon reminded him.
“I know.”
“You gave me the biggest ones.”
“You're a bigger guy.”
Ronon slammed his fist on the wall in rage. The simple outburst left him exhausted and shaking, hurting John at his core to bear witness to his deterioration.
John allowed his friend to let it out, to exorcise all that pent up frustration. Then he busied himself cleaning up their area; there was no such thing as privacy, just the silent promise never to mention the things normally expressed alone.
Ronon had bitten away his fingernails to keep from scratching at his skin, but the rash was active bacteria and practically covered him head to toe. “What did you trade for the food?
John gave his friend the dunka of water. “Drink some of this. I'll get more tomorrow.”
Ronon's hands trembled while he stared at the alien lettering on the outside of the small container. John steadied the pouch after Ronon almost dropped it, helping him take a few sips.
“Why aren't you answering my questions?”
Because ignorance was bliss. John dug through the foodstuffs and pulled out a clump of bulbous roots. “Here, try these. They remind me of Brussels sprouts. Hated those as a kid.”
Ronon didn't grab them.
“You need to eat more.”
“I'm not taking a larger share.”
“I'm not asking.” John wasn't about to back down, but Ronon was as pigheaded as they came. “If I was injured or sick, you'd tell me to shut up and eat. Or force it down my throat. Don't make me do the latter.”
“You couldn't.”
But John could. That was the problem. “Please, Ronon. I'll order you.”
“Sheppard.”
“You need to regain your strength. When you're back on your feet, we'll find a way off this rock. I need you on my six, buddy.” Playing the loyalty card was low, but it was the truth.
Ronon took the sprouts, sniffed the tops and shoved them in his mouth, not caring about manners. “You...gonna...tell me...the truth?” he asked in between chewing.
“No.”
If he didn't answer, it wasn't really lying.
John had an intimate relationship with pain, understood the complexity of living with it. Ronon couldn't seduce or make a deal with it. And the one thing about pain: it hated being ignored. His teammate was losing the battle no matter how hard he fought. John never fell asleep; he merely drifted between states of consciousness. They took turns keeping watch, but it was difficult to relax when your friend was in constant agony.
John gathered his things and crawled over to where Ronon lay. “I'm going to get today's water. But I want you to eat before I leave.”
Cutting away a section of his shirt, he used the knife to smash a double sized portion of roots into a baby food substance to make it easier to spoon feed. Breakfast was gathered in the makeshift cloth plate and he helped ease Ronon into a sitting position to eat.
Ronon used his fingers to scoop the mash into his mouth. “I'm sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” John gave him the mostly empty dunka pouch. “There's enough until I get back. It‘s better to take a few sips every few minutes than a lot all at once.
“Sheppard.”
“I'll be fine.”
The second exchange went as horribly as the first one. John gritted his teeth when the Shan'ka used their version of a band-aid and he threw up the carrot-turnip things all over the floor. The vertigo was so bad that he dug his fingers into his temples, wishing they’d go straight into his brain.
“45482.”
The voice sounded like one of those devices that people with laryngectomies used against their vocal cords. “Gimme a second,” John rasped before dry heaving again.
Crawling on the ground was a good start but left a bad impression. John staggered to his feet; the blue-robed goon squad added to the ring of bruises on his biceps and hauled him up. They took a different way out and for a frightening second John imagined that they were taking him to be embalmed alive.
Dumped outside another chamber, John curled on his side, waiting for the cramps to subside and his vision to clear.
The orris fumes from the den hit him and the rawboned dealer from his first encounter scurried over like an insect. “Knew you'd be back.”
“Said I wasn't interested.”
John stay slumped against the wall so the dealer took that as an invitation, kneeling down next to him. God, the guy smelled like he rolled around in the stuff.
“You're hurting, friend. Your belly is sick. Empty. Orris will help.”
“Will...will it help with pain?”
“If you smoke enough, it'll make you forget all about it.”
John lurched to his feet, his legs buckling from the sudden movement. The dealer grabbed onto him and John shoved him away, losing his balance in the process. “Get off me!” he snapped, clutching the wall.
What an idiotic idea! Orris wouldn't help Ronon. Even considering the idea was evidence of his poor sense of judgment. John scrubbed a hand over his scruffy beard, resisting the urge to scrape his nails across his rash-covered neck. His entire body felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, and he yanked down his shirt collar, revealing a blotchy, reddened chest.
There was something wrong when he crawled back inside their hole.
It was silent.
“Ronon? Buddy!”
John scrambled toward his unmoving friend, searched for a pulse that was fast and thready beneath his fingers. Satisfied that the bigger man was alive, he took the opportunity to examine Ronon's broken leg. Carefully, he removed the BDUs that provided the weakest of splints and was horrified at a limb covered in yellow, blue and black bruises; the bone uneven and swollen from not healing properly.
Damn it!
“Sheppard?”
“Hey, right here.”
Ronon sat up frantically. “Did I fall asleep?”
“Only for a short while. How are you feeling? Think you could eat something?”
“I didn't mean to,” Ronon mumbled.
John gathered a mix of sprouts and roots and started to smash them together, mixing in most of his share for the day, knowing his teammate needed the nourishment.
“Here. Let's see if you've still got an appetite.”
Ronon may have been half out of it from pain, but he still knew how to suck down dinner. Or breakfast. Who could tell at this point? John ate what remained of the day's ration, lost in thought.
“I need to--”
“You need to rest,” John informed him. “You can take the next shift.”
Fighting injuries without basic treatment had a way of creeping up on the strongest of people. John should have seen this coming. Force of will could only do so much.
Ronon put up a token resistance, mumbling about staying awake before his eyes drifted closed. Confidence was one of John's pillars of strength and it lay crumbled beneath him.
Lay down. Sleep. Take the simple way out and wallow in the darkness. It'd be easy. But the transport would come tomorrow. Could he carry the water this time? Would be able to fight to get it?
The dunka was still stored away in his knapsack and the last thing he wanted to do was rifle through it. John slipped his hand inside, pulled out the precious water, but his fingers brushed against something that didn't belong there. Many thin sharp somethings. Barbed. Like pine needles.
They crushed easily between his fingers, producing a slight oily film and a strong scent. That skinny rat bastard!
John was seconds from grinding the orris into dust, but he hesitated, caught between principles and a ravenous stomach. If he owned a rabbit's foot and had a pet leprechaun, his chances at getting a decent amount of water were slim to none.
Not to mention the limited food supply or the mortgage on his life. Bottom line, Ronon would require more food, more water to have a fighting chance. John glared at the orris. How many times had McKay drunk pots of coffee to keep working? How many times had John used stimulants on duty during an emergency, logging countless hours in the sky or fighting on the ground?
When did the line start to blur?
If a small amount kept the hunger at bay until Ronon could get a fighting chance, then so be it. Counting out a hundred tiny needles, he pinched away ten, slipping the rest inside the thin piece of cloth. Smoking it was out of the question and it wasn't like he had a lighter handy, so lacking another avenue he popped them into his mouth.
They were bitter tasting; he chewed them quickly and washed things down with a swig of lukewarm water.
Nothing happened. Not that he expected a magical chemical reaction. His head throbbed, every inch of his body felt like a piece of roadkill. The cave granted a certain amount of mercy from the ugliness of outside, and John curled up on his side, the heat lulling him to sleep.
John walked in a daze, not bothering to run, the transport engines a dull rumble behind his eardrums. The ship, the screaming and shouting were all one large distraction to his mission. If he blocked out all the noise, it made things less real. He was almost at his destination, distance and time a single disconnect. John glanced behind his back, images of helping Ronon eat and drink when he woke up a hazy dream.
His true nightmare loomed ahead, shrouded in sunlight and miles of sand. His skin was stretched tightly over his body, the newest blisters reminding him of shriveled up blue scales and scabs. He remembered being told not to scratch and restraints that kept him from gouging long trails down his arms. John held out his hands in front of his face and pretended they belonged to someone else.
It helped imagining that it was a stranger in line at the least crowded faucet. Teeth, nails, and fists didn't hurt as much. John gave as much as he received, returned punches without holding back. He didn't think; he didn't feel. He couldn't afford to. John had to give it his all because he didn't have any blood left to give.
The tank ran dry after he filled his first pouch and he unsheathed his knife. “Move,” he growled.
John reckoned he looked a little wild, a little crazy. Maybe he was. He felt like it. No one wanted to screw with a lunatic whose brain was baked by the sun and who knew how to use a blade.
Except people who cared even less.
They rushed him, three sets of hands. Three uncoordinated attacks. John went limp, surprising the thieves. Once on the ground, their lower legs made easy targets. He lashed out, smashing the nearest kneecap with his boot and jabbing his knife into the closest ankle.
Both men went down, leaving the third. John saw the rock bearing toward his skull and he rolled out of the way. The third thief smashed the spot where his face had been and brought the stone up for another try.
John threw the knife out of instinct and the blade struck the guy in the chest. His two buddies staggered to their feet, took one look at their pal, and limped away as fast as they could.
The lone thief sank to his knees and stared at the blade protruding above his heart, the front of his robe already soaked with blood. John crouched next to the prisoner who gurgled and coughed a fine spray of crimson onto his shirt.
“Fin...finish me off.”
“No. I'll...I'll…” What could John do? Call for help? Bandage a four inch chest wound?
The thief ripped away his goggles, revealing a formerly young face aged beyond his years. “Please...make sure I'm dead... Be...before they...c-come.”
John knew who 'they' were, already saw them off in the distance, the sun reflecting off their blue robes. A twist of the blade would be merciful.
Without warning the thief thrust the knife deeper into his chest, doing the deed himself. John stared as the man's life poured out of him. The thief took one last gasp and slumped to the ground. Then there was nothing. Just vacant eyes.
John checked for a pulse and, after finding none, slowly closed the lids. When he looked up, the Shan'ka were there, staring back. John pulled out the knife, wiped the blade onto his pants and scooped up some sand to wipe his hands clean.
Four Shan'ka made quick work of the body, stripping away the thief's clothes and rolling him up into a tarp. One of the Shan'ka folded up the garments, retrieved the dead man's water pouch and handed them over and once again a smaller figure hurried over, inclining his head to the larger Shan'ka and turned to John. “We have deemed this a clean death. 44782's possessions belong to you,” he spoke in a normal voice.
John slung the second pouch over his shoulder, rolled up the man's clothes and stuffed them under his arm. The Shan'ka gathered up all the blood splattered sand, making sure not a single bit was wasted.
There were still others out there. Other thieves, other gangs, other desperate people. But they wouldn't go after him today. Not with blood so fresh on his shirt that it would came away wet on his fingers. Not after the Shan'ka transferred another man's water to him.
John came out here half out of his mind and would return with double the water, double a chance for Ronon's survival. There was less of a disconnect than at the start of his mission. But he wished for that detachment. It'd make the stench of death easier to ignore and would allow him to pretend again.
To keep him from feeling anything at all when he killed a man and happily walked away with his water.
Ronon always had an eye for patterns. An artist's eye like his mother's. She’d spent a lifetime in front of a canvas, recreating her dreams. And providing for her family, knitting the blankets on their beds and the curtains that hung in the windows.
He’d spent hours helping mix oil paints and dyeing fabrics, soaking up every stitch, every dab of the brush. His mother had taught him how to blend colors to discover new ones and how any mistake could be turned into something beautiful. Her art was the hidden world of the abstract, the secrets between shapes and form. Ronon painted what he saw, the reality of their world. And even took up the needle to sew his own clothes, and the hammer to build the tables they ate on and the chairs they sat in.
All Satedan children were taught the legend of Kosk, their greatest warrior. When Ronon was a kid he’d illustrated those triumphs in blacks and whites. At age ten, he’d looked beyond the words and studied Kosk's battle tactics. There were patterns in war, too. The lines of troop movements, the strategy and models behind engagements.
Ronon had entered the Academy like all fourteen year-old males. His taskmaster had recognized Ronon's ability to see the fine art of combat. Kell had honed those skills. Fingers that used to weave elaborate designs, learned how to swing the blade, and his palette became the blood of his enemies.
On his nineteenth birthday, Ronon had chosen to stay with his unit, following in the steps of his father and older brother.
Lorena couldn't conceal her disappointment, but had still hugged him tightly, trying to hide her tears. She was a teacher and her son had passed on a chance to study at the University. On Sateda most men joined the ranks of military, but those who could beautify their world held a special honor.
“You could share your gifts with others,” she’d argued.
“If there's no Sateda, there'll be nothing left to share.”
“If nothing preserves our culture, then we might not as well have existed.”
“I don't deserve to be a Satedan if I'm not willing to protect my people. Actions define us. Not what we leave behind.”
It was a shock to wake up from fever dreams, picturing his mother's paintings in the rocky ceiling above. Ronon blinked upwards in the darkness, clawing the ground with the nubs of his fingernails. He wished for his knife, to pick it up and slice off his skin, or plunge it into his leg.
“Pathetic,” Kell's voice echoed in his head. “We live to serve.”
His duty was to his team, to his CO. It was all he had left.
Scouring for ants had made him useful. They were all gone now, all the digging and searching for their burrows coming up empty. He was too weak to move or look for them in other parts of the cave, leaving him to slowly broil alive.
Sheppard finally returned to the cave and was covered by the stench of blood. Ronon ignored the blinding pain of his leg and forced himself to sit up. His vision swam, and he blindly reached out for his friend. “Sheppard?”
“It's...it's not mine,” Sheppard rasped, slumping against the cave wall, his breaths fast and shallow. “I've got us an entire thing of water.”
A whole pouch was unfathomable, the difference between taking ten and fifty sips. Ronon resisted the urge to grab it, to squeeze the water down his throat and splash it all over his burning face. Sheppard didn't talk about ways to ration it, or joke about why he had 'to cook'.
Maybe he'd dreamed of his friend's return, his mind lost between the present and the past. But the stench of death was overpowering in the small confines of the cave, and the nausea abated enough for him to take in Sheppard's sorry state.
“You should take your shirt off and put it outside. Let the sun dry it,” Ronon suggested.
“Good idea,” Sheppard said absently, shrugging out of the baggy thing. “I've got a new one now.”
Ronon didn't ask about the clothes, grabbing the second shirt and scraping the bloodstains over the ground. “You'll need to take this one out there, too.”
Sheppard crawled to the entrance, the sunlight exposing the toll of their lack of food on his leaner frame. He returned bare-chested, leaving nothing to conceal the fresh blues and fading yellow bruises of fights endured alone. It was the first time Ronon noticed the restraining marks around Sheppard's biceps, or the strange healing scars on the inside of his arms.
“I'll make something to eat,” Sheppard said, after he caught Ronon staring at him.
There was something off about his voice, but Ronon's thoughts were scrambled by his body's plight. Sheppard steadied Ronon's shoulders and held the water to his lips, fed him when his arms trembled too much to lift on their own.
Sheppard fell asleep in the middle of drinking his own ration of water, the dunka balanced between his knees.
“Wake up,” Ronon grunted.
“M'mm tir'd.”
“I know, but you need to drink that.”
“Yeah.”
But Sheppard didn't budge and Ronon couldn't make him no matter how hard he tried.
The Great Hall had stood for six hundred years. The Central Plaza had survived the land quake of his Ronon's youth, and even the bridges between the city and country side had endured two civil wars.
The Wraith had reduced everything to dust in hours.
He would return to Sateda to mark holidays or times of tradition. Other visits were more personal, including the search for the family home his great-grandfather had built. It'd been difficult to pinpoint the exact location. It was just intuition, a tingle in his gut that a particular patch of rubble had been the floor where he’d played as a child. There was nothing left, of course, not even the foundation.
What had become of his world's greatest treasures? Of its amazing culture?
A year ago he’d found the art museum where his mother had volunteered and brought back the shattered pieces of several masterpieces. In his spare time he’d tried restoring the paintings, beginning with the one of Sateda's victory at Greadstand that hung on his wall.
He could have taken up the brush for the rest of his life, but had taken up the gun. Ronon wanted to defend his people; when he failed doing that, he did the next best thing.
Killed the Wraith.
“A warrior lives to fight,” Kell had taught him.
Ronon startled awake, but the fists he tried to swing were too heavy to use.
“Easy, buddy. It's just me.”
Sheppard's face blurred into view and it took Ronon a moment to gain his bearings. For the heat and pain to grasp him in their iron grips. “You're awake...I thought...I wasn't sure...”
“I'm fine,” Sheppard downplayed any worry.
“What's our status?”
“Two more days ‘til the next transport. There's enough water and food until then.” Sheppard's voice was haggard and his gaze drifted around the cave as if he couldn't focus on a single spot for too long.
“You don't look good,” Ronon commented.
Sheppard didn't say a word. He grabbed the water pouch and transferred a small amount into the more manageable dunka, running fingers over the alien symbols painted on the outside. Ronon hadn't recalled those before. “Where did you get that one?”
“From a trade,” Sheppard replied absently, holding the dunka to Ronon's mouth and supporting his head to drink.
He tried to control how fast he gulped the tiny dribble and tried not to drink it all. “I'm good,” Ronon lied.
“You need the fluids.”
“I'm not taking a bigger portion.”
“I can get more.”
“From where?” Ronon waited for an answer that never came.
Instead his CO rummaged through their food supplies. “Hope you're not tired of mashed roots.”
Ronon was tired of being ignored, but lacked the stamina to argue. It was hard enough struggling against all the memories and voices that wanted to drag him away. Digging his palm into his eyes, he sought a center between sickness and injury.
It was taking a long time for Sheppard to prepare the meal. Ronon propped himself on one elbow and gazed over. “John?” Sheppard looked up from where he'd been smashing the roots repeatedly. “I think they're done,” Ronon told him.
Sheppard stared at the smear of food at the bottom of the knife handle in a daze. “Oh. I forgot what I was doing.”
They ate in silence for the rest of the meal.
Ronon still admired art. Random paintings on random halls. Sculptures that guarded entrances or various gardens. He didn't try to hide this side from others; he just didn't want to share it. There was a difference. It had nothing to do with his past and more to do with a life he'd walked away from.
When he was on other worlds, his eyes sought out danger, hidden movement, concealed weapons. “Don't trust your eyes,” his training dictated. The Saurin had pinged on his radar from day one. He ignored what they wanted him to see and searched for what they didn't show him. He found himself in a hundred similar rooms, struck by the intricacy of the symbols scrawled all over the walls.
Every hall and room was minimal and sparse. Each exactly like the other. Except for the designs. Silver lettering etched on smooth black walls.
“Cool looking, huh?” Sheppard asked.
“Yeah.”
“Something wrong?”
“I recognize this,” Ronon said, tracing over the lines.
“I thought they were just decoration?”
“That's what the Saurin told us.”
“But?”
“It's everywhere. But the closer we get to important parts of the city, the markings get weirder.” Ronon closed his eyes, finger gliding up and over, and into a semi-circle. “You always use a plain background to draw attention to the important stuff,” he said, copying the pattern.
There, in the third loop. The symbols were connected, one line merging with the next. That was the problem. All the hash marks had been stripped away. He opened fresh eyes and they burned in anger. “I know what this is.”
Sheppard tensed next to him and lowered his voice. “What?”
“This whole city has the Wraith language written all over it.”
Ronon dreamed of ocean waves, of the salt in the air and the bright sun overhead. He shielded his eyes against the orange glare and waded into the waters, the mist spraying his face. The drops were soothing ice cubes over his skin. By cupping his hands, he scooped up the sea and splashed it over his chest. Savoring it all.
He wanted more.
“Hey, buddy.”
The mainland was engulfed by blackness and Ronon blinked droplets out of his eyes. “What?” he asked, wiping the wetness from his face in shock.
Sheppard pressed a cloth to Ronon's forehead. “Your fever's spiked. Lie still.”
The fabric was paradise and Ronon felt himself melt in relief, his raw skin greedily soaking up all the moisture. Except this was water. And they didn't have any to spare.
His eyes shot open and somehow Ronon snagged Sheppard's wrist. “Don't.”
“Ronon.”
The fire burning beneath his flesh raged through all his pores, but it didn't matter. He channeled what little strength remained into his fingers and squeezed. “You're wastin' it.”
“No. I'm not.”
“Stop.”
“Can't do that.”
Words were pointless so Ronon tightened his hold until his whole arm shook from the strain.
Sheppard pulled the piece of fabric away.
It took a while before Ronon noticed the strips of cloth wrapped around his forearms and he stared at them.
“You clawed open your skin in your sleep. The sores are infected. I cleaned them the best I could,” Sheppard explained.
Another waste of water.
“How much do we have left?”
“Enough.”
Ronon didn't buy it. “You used some of your share on me.”
“I can get more.”
That was the second time he'd heard that. “What have you been doing?”
“Whatever I have to.”
Hands that would have never gotten near him in the past supported Ronon's neck, guided liquid and food down his throat and dripped water across his ravaged skin. He growled and snapped at them and they still ignored his wishes to leave him alone.
When the hands were gone, silence swept Ronon away. Silence was peaceful, but peaceful wasn't good. Peace was the feeling danger hid behind, to attack when you weren't looking. The quiet stretched on too long and he opened both his pupils, focusing on a familiar shape huddle nearby.
Sheppard was curled on his side, hands wrapped up in the folds of the other shirt to keep from scratching his own skin. He wasn't asleep; his body trembled and jerked when the muscle cramps struck repeatedly. Normally Sheppard dragged himself to the back of the cave to suffer silently in the dark. The fact that he hadn't, that lethargy had beaten back Sheppard's intense need for privacy scared Ronon. Of course his team leader hadn't noticed Ronon's emergence from his fever's stranglehold before slipping away again.
Ronon could tell he'd slept for a long time because his stomach had grown accustomed to the half-days between meals. It took a long time to rouse Sheppard and panic squeezed his chest.
Ronon argued when Sheppard reapplied the wet strips of cloth to his arms. The whole thing felt like a dream and he fought to stay awake, to overcome the comfort his friend tried to provide. Sheppard didn't understand the danger it represented, or feel its claws dig in deeper.
The transport engines roared overhead and Ronon woke to Sheppard's quick squeeze of his arm, “I'm going to get our rations.”
Ronon managed to haul himself up by using his arms and pressed his cheek to the wall, wondering where the days went. Pressing down on the injured bone in his leg, he welcomed the sharp influx of pain. It was a temporary fix, one that consumed one type of energy over another. But it worked and he kept doing it to keep his mind's sluggishness at bay.
He was more alert when Sheppard returned, aware of the newest signs of battle.
“Hey,” Sheppard greeted, his chest heaving as if he'd run back the whole way. “Good to see you up.”
“Sit down,” Ronon replied.
Sheppard didn't comply right away, eyes darting around the cave. His friend had changed out of Ronon's baggy trousers; the stranger's pair fit more snugly around his waist. Sheppard's blade was stained red, matching the random streaks on the front of his shirt and down the sides of his pants.
“Any of that yours?” Ronon asked.
“No.” Sheppard shook his head as if to clear it. “I didn't kill anyone,” he said as an afterthought, slipping down to the ground. His normally sharp eyes were dull and flat. “At least I don't think I did.”
“Were you jumped?”
Sheppard still held the knife, the vein in his throat throbbing madly. “I don't know.” His expression was more confused than scared and when he glanced at Ronon, his voice was devoid of any emotion. “It doesn't matter. Does it?”
Ronon didn't know how to reply to such an unSheppard-like question. So he didn't, pushing on the broken bone until his jaw clamped shut to keep away the building scream.
“I almost got another full pouch...I.” Sheppard paused. “There were some problems getting near the tank but I made them go away.”
The pain thing wasn't working anymore no matter how hard he pressed. Ronon closed his eyes in defeat, cursing himself for failure. Sheppard stayed propped up against the cave wall next to him, breathing way too fast. One hand still held the knife in a death grip; the other was balled into a trembling fist.
Ronon couldn't help with whatever was ever wrong with Sheppard and didn't even have enough energy to fight the illness that was starting to win.
The fever spiked no matter how much water Sheppard wasted on him. Ronon begged him to stop, pleaded to save the rest. “You're killing yourself,” Ronon rasped.
Sheppard looked half-dead and half insane. His wild beard and disheveled hair stuck out in all directions, giving him a manic appearance. The heat rash had spread from his neck to his cheeks, and his eyes were sunken into his skull.
“I'm fine.”
“I don't want you...to die, too.”
“You're not gonna die.”
“Yes, I am. You need to leave, make an alliance with someone.”
“I'm going to get you medicine,” Sheppard said, shaking Ronon's shoulder. “You hear me?”
“With what?”
“I'll find something.”
Ronon grabbed Sheppard's hand. “Don't.” There wasn't enough moisture left his eyes to produce tears. “Please, John.”
Sheppard wouldn't listen to him and gathered his knapsack for his trip outside. “I have an idea, don't worry. Hang on, buddy,” he said, leaving.
Ronon screamed at his friend's retreating form.
Kell crouched beside him some time later. “Who are you?” he asked in disdain. “Where is Specialist Dex? Where is the Satedan whose face you wear?”
“I'm right here!” Ronon yelled back.
“No, you're not. Dex wouldn't be lying there. He'd be fulfilling his duty. He would do what's right.”
Ronon had always watched Sheppard's back, willing to follow him to hell. They were there now, caught in the roaring flames. But they weren't fighting the way it should be. Ronon was trapped on one side of the flames and Sheppard wouldn't take the exit on his.
Sheppard needed to run away, but the fires were going to burn him alive if he didn't move.
Ronon knew Sheppard would die trying to save him.
And he couldn't allow that to happen.
Ronon screamed and yelled and cried over every inch he dragged his broken body. The pain felt good; it gave him the motivation to keep pushing and keep moving. He’d never strayed too far from the mouth of the cave, needing the light that crept in to see by. There was no telling how long it took him to reach the opening or the number of times he almost passed out from trying.
There was bound to be something sharp enough out there to do what he needed to. If not, the sun would take care of things quickly. Sheppard would need the cave and Ronon didn't want punish him even more by having to remove his body.
He hoped deep inside John would forgive him, that he wasn't taking the coward's way out. Ronon would rather die with a gun in his hand, but if his last act saved Sheppard, then the death was honorable.
It was hotter and brighter then he remembered it. Ronon used his last bit of strength to grip the nearest hunk of rock and closed his eyes and took a deep breath before completing the act he set out to do.
----
“Chapter Four”
