Lighthouse in the Night

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

Disclaimer: Stargate: Atlantis and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story was created for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended. In other words, other than being a fan, I have absolutely nothing to do with Stargate: Atlantis in any way, shape or form.

Author's Note: Unfortunately, I've only been able to occasionally watch SGA, so I am not completely sure about canon. I should probably also mention that most of my information comes from reading posted transcripts at Gateworld (and I haven't read all of them…yet.) Although this story will be AU, I do like to stay close to canon as possible when possible. So please excuse any of my errors (drop me a note via review). Thank you!

Spoiler Warning: Adrift & Lifeline

Chapter One: Lost

There was nothingness, darkness so complete and hopeless that she knew she was gone. Lost. Forfeit. Acceptance. Whirlwinds of power tore through her, scattered her to the emptiness, made her nothing, worthless. Tidal waves of images and emotions flashed through her mind — choice — determination — a soft-spoken man with clear blue eyes — compassion — grief — second chances— two men in blue chattering excitedly, thrilled by debate and discovery — regrets — triumphs — a livid man, standing too close, voice furious and threatening — resolve — exasperation — a woman, soft smile, gentle words, warrior and leader — blush — a kiss — a career soldier, straight-laced commander — sacrifice — panic-stricken soldiers, still holding firm against impossible odds — arrogance — loss — a room bathed in soft blue light — a towering man, few words, unspoken vows and scars — anxious scientists, fear and anger in their eyes — sweet nothings whispered — anger and doubt — green light on gray steel — rage — how natural cold metal felt — a rising moon over water — his charming smile — sparks and ricochets — promises made — prayers — pain — red — relief — death— hope — horror — black —

The faint, familiar smell of pine mixed with a salty sea breeze drifted over her, accompanied by the soft murmur of voices not too far away from her bedside. She strained to hear the quiet conversation, but only caught snatches of a man's familiar brogue and a woman's Midwestern inflection — "signs of hemorrhaging" "regain consciousness" "Dr. Keller upgraded" "nothing more" "permanent damage" "only time will"

"Carson?" another familiar voice, closer this time, spoke. A hand wrapped around one of hers, squeezing her fingers gently and images — too fast to see clearly — flittered through her mind. A hospital room. A bed. A corridor. Weapons. Lies. Fear. A man, with dark hair and a charming smile, urging her to fight, and his voice, angry, determined, soft, kind, teasing, everything. Her head hurt to think. "Carson, I think she's waking up."

There were hurried footsteps and then fingers settled gently on her wrist before, "I think it's too soon, John. Given the extent of her injuries…" The hand slipped away and someone brushed their fingers gently across the skin of her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. There was soft beeping and rhythmic hissing that came and went in her notice, a soothing background, yet vaguely disturbing at the same moment.

"She'll wake up." The man's voice...his voice invoked in her this knowledge of unquestionable safety in his presence and this sheer infuriating stubbornness to do what he thought right regardless of what she thought, yet it also made her want to smile and laugh. Ghostly pressure of lips against lips, hands caressing, shy grins, skin against skin, confessions in the dark. She cared for him, deeply, maybe a little too much, but she did and didn't care at the same time. Now, in his voice, she heard his unwavering faith in her, and hidden away underneath his words was a prayer that she would survive. For him, she knew she would fight to live, just as he did for her.

"Aye, she's a fighter, but it will take time." She heard the first man sigh quietly. "John, get some rest. I'll stay with her. No arguments or I'll sedate you. She would want you to look after the city until she gets back on her feet. Go."

She felt the hand reluctantly let go of hers and she wanted to beg, cry out for him to stay, to anchor her. The darkness swept in and she screamed in silent terror as nothingness surrounded her again and she drifted away.

"—her vitals are falling."

"Keep her breathing. I need—"

"Damn it! She's bleeding out —"

"— room ready."

"Where's—"

Pain.

It was her only constant companion. It shadowed her, stalked her every breath and pounced on her every movement. It was a relentless hunter and she was its helpless prey. She whimpered quietly when someone's small hand settled on her arm.

"Shh," a childish voice soothed quietly, "Grana will be back soon."

The sound of shuffling feet and a cane on a dirt floor approached. The hand disappeared and she whimpered again in pain at the sound of a wooden stool being knocked over. There was a disappointed 'tsk from someone and then, "Is our patient awake?"

"Yes Grana," said the child respectfully. "I think she is."

"Either," the gravelly-voiced woman lectured, "she is or she isn't. She cannot be both. Now," A leathery hand touched her forehead, "her fever's broken. Feel her skin, and see what it should look like."

"Her cheeks still look red," said the child, confusion evident in his tone.

"It is a healthy hue," replied Grana. "Take note of it. Not all of your patients will be this fair-skinned, but you must learn the signs for them as well. Now, then, are you awake? If you are, open your eyes, child."

Unable to disobey the command, she pried her eyes open to see the world around her. She was in a dimly-lit wooden hut, resting on a woven cot under soft blankets.

"Ah, good," said the woman in a satisfied tone, and she carefully turned her head to her left, valiantly trying to ignore the pain pounding in her head. A young boy, no more than ten, hovered behind an elderly woman who sat on a wooden stool. The woman beamed, "It is good to see you awake, child. Water, Benji, go fetch water."

The child took off, out of sight. She swallowed, tasting the coppery taste of blood in her mouth and licked dry lips. The old woman picked up a carved cup from a small table as Benji returned at a run, water slopping over the edge of a bucket. She watched as Grana scolded the child for his haste and dipped the cup into the water.

The cold liquid was a relief to her parched throat and she drank as much as she could before the cup was taken away from her. Benji sat behind her, his thin frame keeping her upright and steady.

"Not so much," said the healer, setting the half-full cup down on the table. "Remember, water must be given sparingly to your patients. Too much will do more harm than good. Now," the elderly woman addressed her remarks to her again, "do you know who I am?"

She shook her head, and her fingers gripped the edge of the pallet as if she could stop the world from swaying around her. That wasn't a good idea. Grana sighed wearily, but kept her voice calm, "That's all right. Do you know where you are from?"

Spiraling towers of incandescent metal, rising from the ocean. Graceful arches and sweeping ocean views. A silver railing. Hands. Secrets.

"I—I'm not sure," she said hoarsely, surprised by how weak she sounded. Home.

Atlantis. She stubbornly closed her lips, swallowing the word from existence. You can't tell.

The woman nodded wisely and picked up a syringe and small glass bottle — both looked oddly out of place in this setting. Underneath the pain, alarm began to rise in her. Something was not right.

"I see," the healer said in a calm voice. "You remember nothing, nothing at all?"

"No," she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the other woman's hands as she worked. The bottle…something was not right with its contents.

"That is all right. Are you in pain?"

"A little," she answered, the words slipping out of her as she watched the syringe being filled with the strange silver liquid. It seemed to have a light of its own, sparkling as it swirled and twisted in the syringe. Medicine, she remembered seeing before— before when? — didn't shimmer like that.

"That can be taken care of."

As the needle pierced her skin, she saw silver bits of metal suspended in water —nanites, clusters of nanites by the hundreds of thousands of being injected straight into her bloodstream. She screamed and tried to pull away, pushing, clawing, shoving, anything to get —

A vise closed around her chest — she could feel her heart frantically trying to beat and failing — and froze her hysterical movements. Her mind struggled for control, but to no avail, her screams unheard and so she helplessly watched as thousands of nanites flooded her, taking over her mind and body. Her muscles suddenly relaxed and she collapsed against her pallet, unable to move. Her eyes wide open, she stared up at the hatched ceiling of the hut as the nanites within began to kill her, bit by bit.

She longed for darkness as pain became her world and her solitary existence.

"—can't bind her."

"Screw the Council's—"

"—she'll die!"

"—I'll take responsibility—"

"We're losing her!"

Blinding light surrounded her, flooding her with calm, washing away her terror, but not the pain. No, the pain was still there, still overwhelming, but endurable in the breath. Warmth cradled her, like a mother's embrace, firm but gentle.

"Chose, child."

She turned in the brilliance, searching for the voice. It seemed familiar, comforting…safe. But there was nothing to be seen, nothing beyond the golden light that bathed her vision.

"Chose what?" she asked. It felt like a logical question.

"Chose."

"Do it."

Pain coursed through her again.

Fear followed and she forced her eyes open to see — half to find relief that she still had control over herself. Or was this yet another dream, another delusion before she died? She wanted desperately to stop fighting, but knew she never could.

A smooth white ceiling greeted her sight and a warm hand slipped into one of hers. She turned, her heart seizing in fear of the old healer, and then stopped altogether for a moment. She choked, and tasted copper in her mouth, but she swallowed it, trying to fight down her shock.

"Carson?" she whispered, disbelief coursing through her. He smiled benevolently at her and squeezed her hand. She reached out to touch him with her other hand, ignoring the pain that came from rolling on her side. His arm was warm and solid under her fingers. He was alive.

"It's going to be fine, Elizabeth," he reassured her softly, touching her shoulder before he reached up to touch her face and wipe away her tears. "You're going to be fine." Footsteps approached and someone gasped quietly in shock.

"Carison, you shouldn't be here!"

"Talia, take him back to his rooms," a brisk voice ordered. "He shouldn't be here. Not now."

"No," she gasped hoarsely, weakly clinging to his hand before masked figures with gloved hands swarmed around them and gently, but firmly broke her grip and pushed her back against the bed. She saw him being guided out of the room, out of her sight and reach, and anger and protectiveness surged in her. No! She wouldn't lose him again!

"Gentle, gentle!" one of them scolded angrily as they prevented her from following him. "I don't want to make her condition worse. How's her — keep her down!"

Gentle hands restrained her, and she struggled against them, ignoring the pain that coursed through her body at the pressure applied to unhealed injuries, bruises and broken bones. She gasped for air that suddenly wouldn't come and her frail body betrayed her as she collapsed back against the bed, her fight now to survive and to struggle against the darkness that encroached on her.

"It's all right," someone soothed gently, pushing firmly down on her shoulders with both hands. Calm grey eyes met hers. "Just relax." The person looked away and demanded sternly, "Where's the vent?"

Twisting her head away from almost-rough hands, she saw one of them slip the needle of a filled syringe into her arm and empty its contents into her bloodstream. Somehow, she found it within herself to scream. Almost immediately, she felt cold, as if she had been plunged into a pool of ice water. Desperately, she struggled to string her thoughts into coherency, to plead for them to let her go, but her body refused to obey her mind's frantic commands.

"It's in."

Someone grabbed her chin and forced her to look upwards while someone else pried open her mouth. She choked against the invasive tubing, gagging as they tried to guide it down her throat, and coughed, red splatter on green gowns. She had to stay awake; she had to fight.

"She's bleeding again! Where the—"

Another wave of ice flowed through her body, and overwhelmed her resistance, sweeping her away into darkness.

"It's done."

"—we can't go back."

"Neither can she."

"—reports on her every—"

"Get some sleep—"

The sun was warm on her shoulders and she relaxed for the first time in a long while. The lush forest around her was peaceful, and she couldn't find it within herself to muster any wariness about what might be concealed in the thick undergrowth. She moved slowly on the well-worn dirt path through the trees, her red silk gown rustling quietly with every step she took. She didn't know where she was going, or why she was even walking, but there was some reason that kept her moving, a reason she couldn't find the strength to question.

"You are safe here."

She did not flinch at the sudden appearance of a companion, a man in emerald robes, by her side. Instead, she nodded, "I know."

The two of them walked in silence, the sun above them slowly making its path across the sky and the forest thinning out into rolling plains of farms. The dirt track had become a well-travelled road, bounded on either side by deeply dug irrigation canals, filled with water.

"You made a choice," he said gently, not looking at her.

"I did?" she asked, studying his grave expression before she looked back at the road in front of them.

"Yes." He stopped walking and she did as well. "And we will teach you the repercussions of that choice."

"What do you mean?" She turned sharply to face him. Brown eyes met green. He put both hands on her shoulders.

"You are ours, and we are yours," he told her with a reassuring smile before he shoved her backwards.

She slipped on the edge of the road and fell into darkness.

"You are ours, and we are yours."

The doctor gently squeezed his patient's hand before he let go and stepped away from her bedside, breaking their connection. He looked at the attending nurse and ordered softly, "Alert me if anything happens."

She gave him a half-bow and a verbal, "Yes Rosilun" of acknowledgement, before returning to her duties, carefully adjusting the flow of medications and nutrition into their comatose patient's body. He nodded and walked out of the room. In the corridor, a woman rose from her seat and walked away from the row of chairs placed against the wall. Without speaking to her, he unhooked a chart from its hanger next to the doorway and, taking out a pen, made a few notes. She stepped to his side, studying his expression.

"Well?" she prodded softly after several minutes of silence.

The doctor sighed heavily as he replaced the chart on its hook, tucking his pen into the breast pocket of his uniform. He gestured for them to walk down the corridor, away from the room and the two guards stationed outside the open doorway. With a silent nod, she followed. He studied the empty walls of the hall until he was quite sure they would not be overheard by any others.

"She's stable….For the time being." He grimaced, "I can't say for certain if she will stay that way. Does the Council know what we've done?"

"Yes," she replied, her expression devoid of emotion. Her right hand rested lightly on the hilt of a small dagger tucked in its sheath on her belt. "I can't say that they were happy about it, but she is my responsibility now."

"Our responsibility," he corrected gently. She shook her head, "If she brings harm to us, it will fall on my head alone."

"Cheya…" he sighed, "you weren't the only one to plead her case; we all—"

"If they come," she said abruptly, "can we take action without harming her?"

He nodded, "Yes. The room is tightly shielded. She won't be harmed if they come." His expression darkened, "If what we have done doesn't kill her first."