Bonds

John's hand shot up, deflecting the branch destined for his forehead as he trailed Ronon through the thick underbrush. "Whoa!"

Ronon turned his head slightly. "Sorry." He returned his attention forward and picked his way through the foliage.

John followed and chanced a look upwards. Beyond the short bushes, ferns and general greenery around them, tall trees with gnarled, thick branches blocked a lot of the sunlight, though enough made it through to light their path. Still, there were plenty of late day shadows to make him wary. He scanned the trees above him again.

"There's none around," Ronon said, without looking back.

John's brow creased in irritation at apparently being obvious and his right hand settled on his holstered .45. "You're sure?" His frown deepened at Ronon's chuckle.

"I'm sure," Ronon answered confidently.

John sighed as he resigned himself to Ronon's expert opinion. He didn't like not being in control—confident of the situation and his position—but the balance to that feeling was his unwavering trust in Ronon's instincts. He'd saved John's ass too many times for that trust not to be almost automatic.

John stepped over a tree root as his thoughts lingered on his friend. He knew the trust between him and Ronon was a two-way street and this little excursion only proved it….

John spun, bringing the Bantos Rod around and landing a stinging blow on Ronon's upper arm. He jumped back, quirking a brow at the string of foreign words that flowed out of Ronon's mouth as the big man turned away from him and stalked to a nearby bench. John had no idea what Ronon said, even though he recognized Satedan when he heard it, but was pretty sure he understood the meaning anyway.

John lowered his sticks. "That's two. Either I'm getting better, or you're distracted."

Ronon turned and glowered at him but said nothing.

John's eyes narrowed at the unmistakable 'I don't want to talk about it' nuances in Ronon's expression and shrugged. "Right." He walked over to another bench, set down his sticks and grabbed a towel. "I knew I was getting better." He shook open the towel and splayed it over his face, rubbing away the sweat.

"Not that much," Ronon answered quietly.

Behind the towel, John smiled. He quickly hid his smile and lowered the towel. "Whatever." He nodded at Ronon's arm. "The bruise you're gonna have says otherwise."

Ronon's glare intensified, but John just stared silently at him. After a minute, Ronon let out a noisy breath. "Fine. I need a favor."

John dropped the towel on the bench before walking over to his friend. He planted his hands on his hips. "Name it," he answered without hesitation.

"I need to go off-world," Ronon answered.

John's brows furrowed in confusion. "Okay," he answered and cocked his head. "That's a pretty easy favor, buddy. Don't suppose you want to tell me why?"

Ronon dropped his own towel and picked up his stick, twirling it absently.

John took a deep breath and waited patiently, a tactic that he'd learned was effective with his often tight-lipped friend.

"Two days from now," Ronon said quietly, "is the Lentak, the twentieth anniversary of the day I completed the rite of passage to manhood and became a true hunter in my clan."

John cocked his head. "Happy anniversary."

Ronon looked at him and smiled slightly, briefly, before the smile disappeared. "The Lentak marks a renewal, when a hunter again proves his worth to the clan and to himself. He is expected to hunt and slay the Yursan, as he did on the day of his original rite." Ronon reached up, his fingers brushing over the small tattoo on his neck. "This was given to me when I passed my rite. It marks me as a hunter in my clan. Once I slay a Yursan for my Lentak, I'll wear its tooth around my neck. If I do not," he shrugged, "I am no longer a hunter."

John's thoughts lingered on his friend's culture as he ducked another branch. Over time, Ronon had revealed some hints of his customs and society here and there, and they'd picked up other hints along the way through men like Solin Sencha. Then there was the incident a few years back with Kell on Belkan and encountering Kell's warriors on Hethia a few months other than that, there was a lot about Satedan culture no one on Atlantis really knew, and Ronon never seemed interested in talking about it. John was sure that had a lot to do with the pain he carried over the destruction of his world, and he was pleased that Ronon had chosen him to talk to about it.

John nodded just a little and let a small smile add reassurance to his expression. "No problem, buddy. You outta know by now, that personal leave isn't a big deal… unless there's something else?"

A dark hint of a smile turned up one side of Ronon's mouth. "It's dangerous. The Yursan is a lethal predator. It hunts from the trees and ambushes its victims. It's why we hunt it for ritual. It's a test of a hunter's skills… and his instincts."

John quirked his brows just a little. "Lethal huh? Well, so is your gun," he quipped.

Ronon's expression turned slightly challenging. "The rite only allows traditional Satedan weapons."

All humor fled John's face. "And those are…?" he prompted. He was pretty sure what the answer would be, and equally sure he wasn't going to like it.

"Spears, swords and crossbows. The hunter may choose his weapons from those alone."

John drew in a deep breath. "I see." He stared intently at Ronon. "You have to do this?"

Ronon nodded.

John pursed his lips and looked Ronon squarely in the eye. "You up to this?"

Ronon's expression was confident and undaunted. "Yes," he answered without hesitation.

John's gaze settled on the spear Ronon carried, the sheathed sword at his waist and the crossbow slung over his back, and felt every bit of discomfort possible at the absence of Ronon's very deadly gun. He didn't like the idea of his people risking their lives needlessly, but he also knew what seemed needless to him wasn't to Ronon. He'd long ago learned that Satedans operated on the foundation of a strong sense of honor, much like the code of honor he lived by – hell, that was one reason he'd been inclined to trust Ronon and ask him onto his team in the first place – but it was also different and even stronger in a lot of ways. Ways that'd taken John by surprise in the beginning and took some getting used to. But after five years, John liked to think he'd gotten a good feel for how Ronon ticked. Something like this, a ritual to remain a hunter, John knew was important in Ronon's life in a way he probably couldn't imagine.

John scratched his sweaty head absently, before looking back at his friend. "Where do you want to go, and how long do you need?"

A hint of relief passed over Ronon's expression. "I know the planet. It's where I passed the rite twenty years ago. Three days."

John nodded, noting the hesitation that was still showing in Ronon's face. "What else?" he asked.

Ronon crossed the gym and stood right in front of John. "The rite has to be witnessed. In Lentak, it's tradition for the warrior's closest friend to accompany him." Ronon took a deep breath. "That's you, Sheppard."

A small smile played at John's lips, as it had every time his thoughts lingered on Ronon's statement since that day. In spite of the apparent danger, he was still flattered. Ronon was a man of few words, but he always thought the two of them had developed a strong friendship. It was gratifying to know for sure.

John smiled and nodded once. "I'd be honored."

This time, Ronon truly smiled. He clapped John on the shoulder and walked back to his bench.

John refocused his attention on the present. "Any idea when or where we'll find these Yursan?"

"Nope," Ronon answered. He turned, flashing John a dark smile. "One will probably find us before we find it." Ronon returned his attention forward.

John sighed deeply. Great…. "You know," he said quietly, "I'd really appreciate not becoming a Yursan hot lunch here…." His voice trailed off as he swore he heard a chortle from his friend.

"No promises."

John winced. "Somehow, I knew you were going to say that." He buried his hesitation under confidence and continued following Ronon. It would've been ideal, if there was anything ideal about this, to hunt the Yursan on a planet familiar to Ronon, but the Wraith stronghold that the MALP reported on that planet, kind of negated that option.

Sateda itself had been another option, but with the gate gone, they'd need the Daedalus to get there and she was on her way back to the Milky Way. That left one, last option: a wild planet with an orbital gate that, after a little arm twisting, McKay had found in the database. There hadn't been that much information, only confirmation of the Yursan through a cross reference with the zoology files and a gate address. No other planets were mentioned.

"Wish we knew more about this place," John groused quietly.

Ronon stopped and quickly knotted his dreads back from his face but said nothing.

John wiped a line of sweat off his brow. "But with an orbital gate, I doubt we could've found anyone who had been here, except maybe the Travelers." He looked around at the thick branches again. "Damned trees. I would've liked to bring the jumper closer."

"The Yursan hunt from the trees," Ronon reminded John.

"I know and I know we have to go in on foot to find one." He sighed. "It's just that having the jumper would've been a lot more convenient."

Ronon just shrugged and continued on.

John watched him for a moment and for not the first time since they'd arrived, he was inclined to agree with Woolsey's hesitation in letting them go.

Woolsey leaned forward and laced his fingers together, letting his arms rest on his desk. "Colonel, you're asking me to authorize the both of you to go off to a wild Pegasus world and hunt what Ronon has categorized as a lethal predator, with nothing more than spears and crossbows."

"Don't forget the swords," John quipped quietly. He grimaced as Woolsey's expression remained un-amused.

"I'm sure you can understand my hesitation," Woolsey answered firmly.

John sighed. "Look, technically Ronon can go, whether we want him to or not. He works with us on his own terms. He always has. The fact that he actually asked means a lot. If we say no…."

Woolsey raised his hand. "I understand that, Colonel." His hand dropped back to the desk. "How confident are you that the two of you can pull this off without undue risk?"

John quirked a brow. "Depends on what you mean by 'undue' risk." He rushed on before Woolsey could respond. "Look, it'll be tricky, yes. Hell, if Ronon calls these Yursan things lethal, then that says something. But I don't think Ronon would go, or ask me to go with him for that matter, if he wasn't pretty confident he could do it." John inhaled deeply and sighed. "Considering everything he's done for us, don't you think we owe him at least this much?"

Woolsey leaned back in his chair and refolded his hands on his lap.

Unwavering, John stared Woolsey in the eye. "Is it a go?"

Woolsey tapped his thumbs together and stared right back at John before sighing quietly. "Against my better judgment… yes, it's a go." His gaze narrowed. "Don't make me regret this, Colonel."

Causing regrets for Woolsey was the least of John's concerns at the moment, but his perspective shifted as he watched Ronon's retreating back and a slight smile turned up one side of John's mouth. Sure he was wary. Sure there were more unknowns in this little excursion of theirs than he liked on any mission, especially potentially dangerous ones, but through all of that, one thing stuck in his head. Ronon was his friend. Good friend. He'd always been there for the team, for Atlantis… for John, and now, when he needed that favor returned, he'd asked John to do the honors. John's half smile turned into a full one as he again followed his friend. That alone made everything else worth it.

John absently tossed a twig into the crackling fire before leaning back against a tree. He rested his forearms on his bent knees and looked over at Ronon who patiently turned a spit, roasting what John equated to a small Pegasus version of rabbits. He nodded his head at the slow-cooking meal. "Good catch."

Ronon smiled slightly. "They'll do."

John picked up another small twig, snapping it between two fingers. Ronon seemed nonchalant about the whole thing, but John knew if he were alone, he'd be eating a cold Power Bar for dinner, not roasted game. He smiled a little. "Hope we find these Yursan by midday tomorrow, or we'll have to consider turning back." He met Ronon's somber gaze and shrugged. "We told Woolsey three days. By midday tomorrow, we'll have been out a day and a half. We'll need that much time to get back and check in, otherwise Woolsey will have half of Atlantis out looking for us." John tossed the broken twig pieces into the fire. "Don't think we'd score too many points in his book if that turned out to be a false alarm."

"I have to get a Yursan," Ronon answered quietly. He averted his gaze and fixed it on their roasting dinner.

"I understand that," John answered evenly. "But if we manage to stay on Woolsey's good side, our chances of getting him to give us more time are a lot better, don't you think?" He paused a moment, letting his words sink in with Ronon. "Besides, once he agrees, we can bring the jumper closer in and pick up where we left off. That'll save time."

Ronon seemed to consider John's words before he nodded silently.

John pursed his lips briefly, noting the hints of conflict in Ronon's face. "You'll get your Yursan, buddy," he answered. He waited for Ronon to look up at him, before he smiled just a little.

The corners of Ronon's eyes crinkled, in what could've been a hint of a smile. He again looked at the roasting meat and poked it with a sharp stick experimentally. "Almost done."

John nodded. "So," he ventured, changing the subject, "this is the first time I've heard you mention being a hunter. It's always been a warrior or soldier. Where did the hunter come from?"

This time, a small smile actually did grace Ronon's face. "The warrior's code came with my training in the military, when I was under the instruction of Kell," his expression darkened for a moment, before he went on. "My people lived in clans for most of our history. Even after we unified, we still kept clan traditions. My clansmen have always been hunters." His smile turned slightly bittersweet. "On Sateda, I was a hunter, before I was ever a warrior."

John nodded to himself as a few more pieces of the puzzle that made up his friend's life, fell into place. "No wonder you can track so well. I always figured it was from seven years as a Runner."

"That's part of it," Ronon answered, "I honed my skills running from the Wraith, but I learned the ways of a hunter as a boy."

"Your grandfather," John replied, remembering the story of Ronon's grandfather and the Shrine of Talus they'd taken Rodney to, when he'd suffered from the Second Childhood. "Was your father a hunter too?"

Ronon stared deeply into the fire. "Yes," he answered quietly. "And a warrior." His voice was quiet and his gaze turned distant.

John's eyes narrowed. Something in Ronon's demeanor changed and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it, or what to say.

"That's what my grandfather told me," Ronon continued quietly. "I didn't know my father."

John slowly leaned forward, his gaze fixed on his friend. "You didn't?" He couldn't keep the note of surprise from his voice. He didn't know why, maybe it was just reflexive, but he'd always assumed Ronon had grown up with both his parents. He'd never even considered anything different.

Ronon shook his head silently.

John looked away for a moment, and then back to his friend. "What happened?" He asked softly.

Ronon sighed deeply. "A culling, not long after I was born." Ronon glanced at John before returning his gaze to the comforting flicker of the campfire. "He was killed by Wraith weapons fire, while helping others of my clan, including my mother and me, to safety."

John closed his eyes for a moment. He knew Ronon's hatred of the Wraith ran deep and was personal, but until this point, he hadn't realized just how personal that fight really was.

"The men of my clan raised me," Ronon continued. "My grandfather, uncles, clansmen close to my father, they all taught me the ways of the hunter. They taught me honor. They taught me how to be a man…." He sighed deeply. "I owe it to them to kill a Yursan, Sheppard, to complete the rite of Lentak. To honor my clan, my family and my father."

John pressed his lips in a tight line as the silence between them lingered, broken only by the crackling of the fire. In a matter of minutes, this excursion took on a whole new meaning to him. He nodded once to himself. "If there are Yursan on this planet, Ronon, we'll find them, no matter how long it takes or," he cracked a small half smile, "how pissed off Woolsey gets." His smile faded, replaced with a strong, unwavering confidence. "You have my word." He held that confident look as Ronon locked gazes with him. Gratitude, friendship and even a touch of relief all showed in Ronon's expression and neither man said a word, just letting their expressions speak for themselves.

Ronon broke the gaze first and he reached for the spitted game, pulling it off the fire. "Done." He speared one with a sharpened stick and handed it to John who took it gladly.

John smiled at the steaming meat and his stomach growled in anticipation. He pulled off a piece of breast meat and popped it in his mouth. He fanned his face vigorously. "Hot!" he managed around the mouthful of food, before grabbing his water canteen.

Ronon chuckled before his expression turned sober. "Thanks, Sheppard," he said quietly.

John swallowed and set the canteen aside. He shrugged. "For what? You caught dinner, not me."

Ronon looked up at him, his expression knowing, and John returned the look. He waved his speared dinner at the Satedan. "Eat hardy."

Ronon just laughed and attacked his dinner.

John inhaled deeply as he slung his backpack over his shoulders. The morning air was fresh and with only a hint of a chill, the day promised to be pleasantly warm. He looked over at Ronon, who kicked dirt over the smoldering remains of their fire. "Ready?"

Ronon shouldered his crossbow and nodded. He looked around. "Been thinkin' about where to go." He gestured east with his spear. "That way."

John's eyes followed his gesture. "Any particular reason?"

Ronon looked over at John. "No."

"Okay," John shrugged. "Seems as good a direction as any." He quickly checked the load on his .45 before holstering it. He looked up, meeting Ronon's somber gaze and shook his head. "We've been through this. I won't use it unless I have to."

"I'll tell you if you have to," Ronon answered.

John cocked his head and added a note of firmness to his voice. "I'll be the judge of that, buddy." He held gazes with Ronon, letting that same firmness strengthen his expression as Ronon's eyes narrowed slightly, before he broke gazes and started off through the woods. John watched him for a moment, before falling in behind. In John's mind, some things were non-negotiable, and making sure his friend wasn't eviscerated by a wild Pegasus predator was one of them.

Woolsey unlaced his fingers and tapped them absently on his desk. "I don't like the risk involved. Especially without the appropriate weapons."

"Granted," John immediately agreed. "And I'm taking a .45. I don't care what Ronon says. Ideally, I'll let him have the kill with traditional Satedan weapons, but if this all goes sideways, I'm not going to stand by and let some damned wild animal kill him either."

"What about a P-90?" Woolsey asked.

John shook his head. "I think that'd be pushing it. I can probably get him to compromise on a .45, but not a P-90." John shrugged. "We've also got Wraith ordinance. That outta even things out."

They walked in silence for quite a while, weaving their way through the trees. Ronon's quietness didn't worry John too much. They'd had the discussion about his .45 before they'd ever left Atlantis but John held firm. There were a lot of things he'd compromise on, and had compromised on for Ronon's quest, but somewhere, a line had to be drawn, and this was where he drew it. He'd meant what he'd said to Woolsey, though he really hoped it wouldn't come to that. Ideally, Ronon would get his kill and they'd go home, unscathed and without John ever firing a shot.

Ideally.

He arched a brow, refusing to acknowledge the sarcastic voice in his head asking when anything ever went ideally for them. He lurched to a stop when, in front of him, Ronon raised his fist in a stop signal and froze. John immediately looked up, his eyes scanning the branches above them. Apparently, Ronon had been right in picking this direction. The trees had thinned considerably, their branches spaced apart from each other instead of tangled in an indistinguishable mess. Wide spaces between the trees made their trek easier but also provided ample room for an attack.

Slowly, Ronon crouched, resting his arms on his knees. John followed suit, crouching behind him. Ronon inhaled and then exhaled deeply. He seemed to be listening and though John couldn't explain it, he had the distinct feeling there was more to it than that. But in the years his team had been together, he'd come to recognize what he could only call a sixth sense in Ronon and Teyla when it came to observing their surroundings. John never considered himself a slouch in being aware of what was around him, but those two routinely put him to shame. He'd often wondered if the Pegasus natives like Ronon and Teyla, whose people spent generations as hunters, had developed a sixth sense their Earth counterparts lacked.

After a couple minutes of motionless silence, John chanced a whisper. "Ronon?"

Ronon slowly straightened, turned and looked down at him. "Heads up," he said, using one of the several Earth phrases he'd picked up from living on Atlantis.

John nodded and stood. "Literally," he muttered, looking up once again. His attention was drawn back to his friend as Ronon handed him his spear before pulling the crossbow off his back and loading it with a bolt from a small quiver that hung off his belt near his sword.

John lifted the spear and looked up and down its length. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

Ronon's expression was darkly amused. "Carry it."

John grimaced and shot a glare at his friend. "Right."

Ronon raised the crossbow and continued on, his pace slower and much more wary. John followed suit, carrying the spear in his left hand, leaving his right one free to grab his gun if needs be. He listened, trying to hear what Ronon heard and hopefully sense what he sensed, but he had the distinct feeling he was coming up short in that department. His gaze constantly switched back and forth between watching the path in front of him to keep from tripping and falling on his face, and above him, hoping to avoid an ambushing Yursan.

Again he froze when Ronon stopped, his whole body tensing. Before John could react, a huge black shadow burst through the branches right at Ronon, its screeching cry echoing around them.

Ronon spun, and fired the crossbow, but his shot went wide a split second before the Yursan plowed into him.

"Ronon!" John yanked his .45 from its holster but had no clear shot as Ronon rolled, taking the Yursan with him. The volume of Ronon's shout rivaled the Yursan's cry as he threw the beast off, tucked his shoulder and rolled again before coming to his feet and drawing his sword, all in one smooth, split-second motion.

John centered his aim on the crouching Yursan.

"No!" Ronon shouted.

John gritted his teeth, but held his fire. Ronon was on his feet, sword in hand, and seemed uninjured. As much as he wanted to end this now, John couldn't bring himself to rob Ronon of his ritual kill, not as long as the Satedan seemed to still have some control of the hunt. John's finger never left the trigger, but he didn't fire. "Holding," he snapped, keeping aim on the Yursan's head. The beast reminded him of a black panther, and had the size to match. But like most Pegasus wildlife, it was just different enough to remind him he wasn't on Earth, with long, jagged teeth and sharp claws. The animal snarled at Ronon, and then turned orange, cat like eyes on John, snarling again. It took a step towards him and John tensed.

Ronon twirled his sword and shouted at the Yursan, his cry almost as animalistic as his prey, and that seemed to be all the Yursan needed to decide that it would focus on Ronon and not John. With a snarl, the beast launched itself at the Satedan.

John kept his aim on the moving animal and it took everything he had not to open fire. It went against everything he believed in to watch a lethal animal charge his teammate and do nothing about it, but he knew what this kill meant for Ronon and his honor and that was the only thing that stayed his shot.

The Yursan leapt at Ronon, committing itself to the attack, and Ronon raised his sword, bringing it around in a large arc and swiping downward as he jumped to the left and out of the way of the animal's attack. His sword grazed down the side of the beast and its cries turned painful. It hit the ground hard, but lurched to its feet and snarled. Ronon jumped back and looked at John. "Spear!"

Forgotten in his left hand, John looked at the long spear for a split second before he whipped his hand up and, holding the spear vertical, he tossed it to Ronon, who dropped the sword and deftly caught it. John reinforced his grip on the .45 with both hands just as the wounded animal charged at Ronon.

Ronon didn't hesitate. He leveled the spear at the Yursan, and with a shout of his own, charged right back at the beast. The Yursan leapt at him and in the last second, Ronon crouched and thrust the spear upwards, impaling the beast as it came down on him. Ronon shifted his weight, pushing the spear left and deflecting the animal off him before letting go.

The Yursan fell heavily to the ground, the spear embedded in its belly. It moved feebly as blood flowed heavily from the mortal wound.

John slowly walked towards Ronon, his gun still trained on the dying animal. "You okay?"

Still kneeling, Ronon took a couple deep breaths before he stood and walked over to where his sword lay on the ground. "Yeah." He picked it up and walked back to the Yursan. Putting his foot on the animal's half-open mouth, he lowered the sword and in one smooth move, slit the Yursan's throat. Blood spurted from the wound and the Yursan thrashed once more before its body went limp.

John lowered his gun and inhaled deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. It'd been close, but Ronon had done it. He made eye contact with his friend and nodded once. "Good kill."

Ronon smiled just a little. "Thanks." Kneeling, he wiped the blood from his blade off on the Yursan's hair before he sheathed the sword.

John holstered his gun. "What do you need me to do?"

Ronon pulled a short knife out of his left vambrace and peeled back the Yursan's lip, before he attacked the long canine tooth, attempting to extract it. "We'll need to bury it." Pulling hard, he worked the tooth loose and held it up. His slight smile returned as he looked at it. A moment later, he tucked it safely into a small pouch on his belt.

John shrugged out of his pack and untied the small, collapsible shovel from its spot on the side of the pack. He unfolded it and looked around. "Where?"

"Anywhere," Ronon answered.

John looked at him and nodded. "Okay." He walked around, poking the ground, looking for a soft spot to dig. He glanced at Ronon, his gaze lingering as his friend gently laid his hand on the animal's head.

"Leaving it to scavengers, or to rot, disrespects the animal's sacrifice and the hunt," Ronon said softly.

One side of John's mouth turned up just slightly in appreciation for the reverence he heard in Ronon's voice. If there was one thing he'd learned from years of working with Teyla, it was the deep respect hunting cultures had for the creatures and the world they were a part of. He saw that respect in Ronon's expression and admired him for it.

Returning his attention to the ground around him, he found what he hoped was a soft spot and with a strong jab, pushed the shovel into the ground. Once he'd worked the dirt lose, Ronon knelt and scooped it away with his hands as John continued shoveling. It didn't take them long to have a respectably large and deep hole.

John wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and leaned on the shovel as Ronon stood and turned towards the dead Yursan. He only took a step before he froze, his back rigid and his expression dark.

John straightened, his senses immediately on point at his friend's stance. "What is it?" He looked up, scanning the branches above them. "Another Yursan?" His hand settled on his .45. This time he wouldn't hesitate in firing. Ronon had his kill. John was done messing around with primitive weapons. He twisted at a crack in the trees behind him, smoothly drawing the .45 to the sound of Ronon drawing his sword.

John held the gun ready, but relaxed slightly as two men emerged from the trees. Dressed in rough breeches, ornate necklaces hung low over their bare, tanned chests. Their hair was cut short and their dark eyes were sharp. One had a long bow and the other a spear, and both held the weapons ready, their expressions wary. They were clearly primitive, probably hunters or scouts.

John pursed his lips and looked at Ronon. "Not uninhabited apparently."

"Nope," Ronon muttered. He held the sword firmly in both hands.

John looked back at the two tribesmen and lowered his gun just a little. "Hi," he ventured.

The two tribesmen looked at each other before fixing him with confused looks.

John frowned. "Great. Language barrier." He thought for a moment and only one solution presented itself. They'd have to communicate, in a universal language of some sort, that they didn't mean any harm. To John, the most effective way would be to not point a deadly weapon at them. He just hoped they felt the same and returned the favor. While he was willing to make the first gesture, though, he wasn't too keen on being completely defenseless.

John looked over at Ronon. "Keep that sword ready." Slowly, he lowered his gun and holstered it before raising both hands and smiling. "Friendly," he said. Even though the word was useless, he hoped his tone wasn't.

One of the natives looked past him, and stared at the dead Yursan. His expression darkened and he looked back at John, the anger clearly evident on his face even from several feet away. "Co na sa tae!" he spat.

John lowered his hands. "Uh-oh." He looked sideways at Ronon. "Don't suppose you know what he's saying?"

"Nope," Ronon repeated.

"Sha-te!" The native raised his spear at Ronon and the other one nocked an arrow before drawing a bead on John.

John's hand dropped to his gun but he didn't draw. He raised his left hand in a placating manner. "Come on, guys," he said, hoping his tone would help diffuse the situation, "we don't want to do this." He backed up a step, and Ronon mirrored his move. "We'll just leave, if that's what you want."

The native with the spear held it steady with one hand while aiming a strong gesture at the Yursan with the other. "Ea nay yaya!" he shouted.

"They're mad we killed it," Ronon observed quietly.

"Oh, hell," John groused quietly. "Maybe if we leave, they'll let us go?"

Ronon arched a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing.

John shrugged. "Worth a try." He backed up another step, still holding his hand out in what he hoped was a placating manner but keeping his right hand planted firmly on his holstered gun. "Okay… we're leaving," he said.

"Na tae!" The native shouted.

To John, the arrow coming at him seemed to be moving in slow motion, but before he could react, searing pain shot through his body as the arrow slammed into his left shoulder. He fell backwards with a shout, the force of the shot knocking him off his feet.

"Sheppard!"

John hit the ground hard and struggled to control the pain flooding his body, struggled to think clearly, to do something. He fumbled at his holster and pulled his gun. Against the pain he fought to sit up, his gaze focusing on the native with the bow, taking another aim at him. The second native charged Ronon with a loud shout.

John's gaze zeroed in on the bow and instinctively, he lifted the gun, pulling the trigger as his aim centered on the bowman. He put three consecutive bullets in the man's chest, who went down heavily. John whipped the gun towards the other native and fired but missed. He watched as Ronon stepped inside the man's attack, barely sidestepping the spear, and buried his sword in the man's belly.

Ronon yanked his blade free as the tribesman collapsed and remained still.

John lowered his gun and fell back to the ground with a loud groan, the pain almost overwhelming him. "Shit!" he managed, squeezing his eyes shut. After a moment, he opened them and focused on Ronon's concerned face towering over him. Ronon's gaze left his and focused on the arrow.

"How… bad?" John gasped.

"Under your collarbone," Ronon answered. "Don't want to pull it out, but need to break off the shaft. Too long. It'll catch branches when we try to move. Cause more damage."

John nodded and tried to quell his rolling stomach. "Makes… sense. Bandages in the… pack."

Ronon grabbed firmly to the arrow shaft and looked at John. "This'll hurt."

John took a deep breath, his body tensing. "I know. Do it."

Nothing could've prepared him for the pain, as Ronon swiftly broke the shaft in one, smooth motion. John's cry was loud and his vision dimmed as blackness crept in. It was all he could do to try and stay conscious, and not lose his lunch.

He wasn't sure how long it took, but when he finally could see straight again, Ronon was wrapping a stout bandage around his shoulder and working the strips under his armpit and around his neck. Tying it tightly, Ronon took a second bandage and fashioned a crude sling for John's arm. He tied it behind John's neck, sat back and looked at him. "Those two will be missed."

John nodded. "Yeah. We need to get going." He lifted his right hand, and Ronon grasped his wrist, supporting him as John carefully sat up. He closed his eyes against the spinning world around him and took several deep breaths.

"Sheppard?" Ronon questioned.

"Just gimme a… minute," John managed. After another couple breaths, he opened his eyes and pulled his legs under himself. Relying on Ronon's support, he slowly stood.

Ronon held firmly to his arm with both hands and stared questioningly at him.

John nodded. "I'm good. Get the… pack."

Reluctantly, Ronon let go of John and picked up the pack before slinging it onto his back and slipping his arms through the straps. He picked up the crossbow and grabbed John's right arm, pulling it over his shoulder. "Come on," he said gruffly.

John nodded, leaned on his friend and forced himself to walk. He tried to focus on walking, while trying not to think about how far they were from the jumper.

John wasn't sure how long they'd been walking, but it felt like an eternity. His shoulder throbbed with each rapid beat of his heart, sending waves of pain through his entire, sweat soaked body. He clung tightly to Ronon's shoulder and could feel his friend's strong grip around his waist helping him along. He managed to lift his head, his thoughts clearing as Ronon abruptly stopped. "What?" he gasped.

"Rest," Ronon answered as he gently lowered John to the ground, situating him against a large tree trunk.

John let his head fall back against the tree, and he closed his eyes for a few moments and took a couple deep breaths. Peeling open his eyelids, he looked down at his left shoulder. The bandage was dark, blood soaked and still wet, showing just how much blood he'd lost, and was still losing. "Not good," he muttered.

"Nope." Ronon shrugged out of the backpack.

John's chortle was weak. "Gotta work on your 'reassuring the victim' conversation skills, buddy."

Ronon shot him a plain look before turning his attention to the backpack. "Not my style."

"I noticed," John answered dryly as he let his head again rest on the tree. He could feel weakness gnawing away, slowly but steadily, at his strength. Doubt, and a little bit of fear crept in on his resolve. How much longer can I…. John gritted his teeth, burying the thought. He'd go as long as he had to. As long as it would take to stay ahead of the natives and to get to the jumper. Another day. He could do another day….

"Sheppard."

John opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd shut, his gaze settling on Ronon's outstretched hand, and the canteen he held.

John lifted his head and nodded. "Right." He took the canteen, trying not to notice the shaking in his hand. He tipped it back and took a long, deep swallow before holding it out to Ronon. "How long have we been going?"

"Couple hours," Ronon grabbed the canteen and took a sip.

"Natives?" John again rested his head on the tree.

Ronon set aside the canteen and looked John in the eye. "It's their home. They know the land. As soon as they find those two and our tracks, they'll come after us."

John closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on their situation, look at it from a tactical standpoint. "We've got a good head start."

"They'll move a lot faster than we can," Ronon answered.

"Maybe it'll take a while for them to find the two we killed," John countered.

"Nope. Those two weren't provisioned for a long hunt." Ronon sounded confident. "Probably only out for a few hours. A day at the most."

John sighed. "Then we'll hope for the full day."

"Doubt it."

John lifted his head and stared hard at his friend. "We really need to work on that pessimism of yours, big guy."

Ronon's face was an unreadable mask for a long moment, before he slowly smiled, his expression taking on a distinctly challenging look. "We're not dead yet."

John sighed again and closed his eyes against the unrelenting pain. "I know that…."

"Accept the reality of your situation," Ronon interrupted, "and find a solution for it." He reached into the backpack and pulled out another bandage. "Satedan Warrior's Code." He held out his left hand and John grabbed it with his right.

"In other words," John answered as he let Ronon slowly pull him up straight, "you're not a pessimist, but just bein' a realist?"

Ronon shook open the bandage. "Just because I accept what's unavoidable, doesn't mean I don't think we can get out of this alive, Sheppard."

John watched as Ronon placed the new bandage over the top of the blood soaked one, and situated it around the arrow shaft as best he could. John grunted, wincing at the new wave of pain that shot through him as Ronon tied the bandage tightly and sat back. John looked him in the eye. "Just because I'm an optimist, doesn't mean I don't prepare for the worst."

Ronon's small smile returned. "I know." He stood and extended his hand.

John took Ronon's hand and slowly stood. Standing somewhat straight, he took a few deep breaths, quelling his nausea and fighting lightheadedness that threatened to knock him right back down on his ass. Finally, he felt strong enough to let go of Ronon's arm, freeing the big man to put on the pack, grab the crossbow and sling John's arm over his shoulder.

"What do you say," John asked as they started off through the woods again, "that we talk about how we're going to fend off these natives when… or if, they find us?" He thought he felt as well as heard Ronon chuckle just a little.

"Deal."

John tried to catch himself as his foot caught on a half-buried root, but his legs were rubbery, not to mention numb. He clung to Ronon, whose firm grip was the only thing that kept him upright. "Shit," he gasped.

"Got ya," Ronon answered, still holding strong.

John forced his legs to support him, relying on blunt stubbornness to stay on his feet. It was the only weapon he had left in his arsenal that could combat the slow but steady weakening of his body from blood loss and exertion. He took a deep breath. "What were we… talking about?"

"Arguing," Ronon corrected. "You wanted me to take the .45 if the natives caught up with us." Ronon shifted his weight and repositioned John's arm across his shoulders. "The answer's still no. You need it to defend yourself. I've got the crossbow and sword."

"Damn it, Ronon, I can't even… see straight much less… aim with any accuracy… right now," John retorted as he struggled to take as much of his weight off Ronon as he could, "take the damned gun… if they attack. You can… end it fast."

"No."

"Buddy, I'm seeing double," John countered, ducking a branch and nearly falling over because of it. "I can't exactly shoot… when I can't tell… what to shoot at!"

"Shoot the one on the left," Ronon answered, flippantly.

"Ronon!" John snapped, putting as much authority in his voice as he could, "don't make me… order you."

"Not a mission," Ronon answered, his voice equally as authoritarian. "And in Lentak, the hunter leads."

John gritted his teeth against more than just the pain and exhaustion he was fighting, but also his friend's stubbornness. Ronon was right about one thing: they weren't on a mission, so technically he wasn't in command and Ronon worked with Atlantis on his own terms. Outside of missions or the numerous 'situations' they seemed to have on Atlantis, he really didn't fall into any sort of chain of command, not formally anyway, though most of the time he still followed John's lead. John could try to play the CO card, but he doubted Ronon would listen. There were pluses and negatives to having independent thinkers on your team, though John still believed the pluses outweighed the negatives. "Would you just… take the damned gun?" he answered, exasperated. All his strength was going towards fighting his body. He didn't have any left to fight his friend.

"Make me," Ronon answered definitively.

John threw the best pissed off look he could at Ronon but doubted it carried much strength against Ronon's darkly amused but still challenging expression. He sighed. "You're a real… pain in the ass sometimes," he muttered.

"Yep." Ronon stopped and looked down at John. Without a word, he slowly helped John sit down against a tree.

John refused to sit back and relax, even though his entire body was shaking from exhaustion. "Got to keep moving."

Ronon shook his head. "Getting dark and you need to rest."

John stared at the sheen of sweat on Ronon's forehead, visible even in the twilight. "So do you."

Ronon looked like he wanted to protest, deny that he too was exhausted, but after a moment he nodded, silently conceding the point. He shrugged out of the pack and set it close to John before handing him a canteen.

John held tightly to the canteen. It took both of his hands to steady it enough to take a drink; something he knew wasn't lost on Ronon. The fight to stay on his feet, his stubborn refusal to collapse and even the argument with Ronon, had all fueled his resolve and kept him going. But now, sitting down, he realized just how weak he was. His legs and arms felt leaden and his eyelids were heavy as he fought to stay conscious. As much as he knew they needed to keep moving to stay ahead of the natives, he also knew he had to rest, or he'd never make it to the jumper. He sucked in a deep breath. "How far are we… from the jumper, you think?"

Ronon shrugged as he dug around in the backpack. "Too far."

John nodded. "We're going to miss our check-in."

Ronon pulled out a protein bar, unwrapped it and held it out to John. "Yep."

"What?" John looked at the bar and smiled slightly. "No roasted game? You're… slipping, buddy."

Ronon raised his brows at the jest. "No fire. Can smell the smoke for miles and they're tracking us. A fire circle is easy to find."

John nodded. "Well," he leaned his head back against the tree and took the bar. "Once we miss our… check-in, Woolsey will send a… team to find us." He took a small bite. Truthfully, he wasn't hungry and his stomach sent rebelling waves of nausea at him for eating anything, but he had to keep his strength up for as long as he could. That meant water and, while he could tolerate it, food. He took another small bite as Ronon found a bar for himself.

John managed to eat half the bar before he had to stop or throw up. He set the rest of the bar on his leg. "Can't eat anymore." He swallowed hard and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Save it." He rested his head on the tree again, closed his eyes and focused on his breathing and keeping down what he'd managed to eat. He heard rustling as Ronon wrapped up the bar and put it back in the pack.

"Take some water, Sheppard," Ronon insisted quietly.

John nodded and opened his eyes, reaching a shaking hand for the canteen. He grabbed it, but Ronon didn't let go, instead helping steady it as John took a small sip.

"You look like hell," Ronon commented.

John chortled weakly as he focused on Ronon's slightly amused expression. "Oh, good," he managed, "I wouldn't want… to look better than I… feel."

Ronon chuckled and set the canteen aside. "Get some sleep."

John exhaled deeply, his stomach settling. "Right. Wake me in… a few hours so you can… get some rest too."

"Don't need it," Ronon answered quietly.

John lifted his head. "Ronon…."

"Don't need it," Ronon repeated, interrupting him. "I went days without sleep as a Runner, Sheppard." He paused for a moment. "I can handle it. Besides, we'll need to move in a few hours anyway."

John pursed his lips. Ronon may not be injured, but as much as John was trying to carry his own weight, he knew Ronon was bearing the brunt of it. If the natives caught up to them, Ronon had to be fit to fight, not exhausted and sleep deprived.

"Trust me," Ronon added, correctly reading the conflict in John's silence, "I'll be alright. At least for a while."

John sighed. Trust in his teammates was instinctive, almost reflexive after all this time and this situation was no different. He had to trust that Ronon knew his limitations and wouldn't exceed them. Right now, they didn't have a choice. "Okay." He slowly let his head fall back against the tree and took a deep breath, trying to tune out the throbbing pain in his body that had become his constant companion. Pulling on years of experience in the field, where you had to snatch sleep wherever you could get it, he blocked as much of the pain as he could and dozed.

John felt as though he'd just closed his eyes, when Ronon squeezed his good shoulder, waking him.

"Gotta go," Ronon said quietly.

John blinked hard, trying to clear the fog in his mind, but he struggled to even keep his eyes open, much less think coherently. He lifted his head, but his body was leaden, refusing to move. It was still dark, but hints of light dimly showed through the trees. "How long?"

"Few hours," Ronon crouched next to him and held out the canteen of water.

John blinked hard, still trying to get his head on straight. "It's nearly dawn, that's more… than a couple hours." Even through the haze that shrouded his mind, he could hear a slight slur in his words. He looked down at the wet blood on the bandage. He might not be bleeding heavily, but the slow, steady blood loss was just as problematic. It just took longer to knock him down. Shit.

"Yeah," Ronon admitted, "but you needed it." He held the canteen to John's lips and John took a long sip. Silence lingered between the men for a long moment before Ronon spoke again. "Can you move?"

It was only then, that John realized his eyes had slid shut. He jerked his head up, his eyes snapping open. He took a deep breath, and then another, as he tried to make the two Ronons in his vision merge into one. "Yeah," he whispered, "gimme a… minute…." His head lolled off to the side before he shook it hard, trying to clear the cobwebs out of his mind. He couldn't seem to think straight, or find the strength to even lift an arm. Getting to his feet seemed about as likely as lassoing the moon at this point.

"Sheppard."

The deep tone in Ronon's voice compelled John to look at him. He stared Ronon in the eyes and felt the big man's hand grip his good shoulder tightly.

"We have to move."

John just stared back at him for a moment. There was a deep conviction in Ronon's voice that stirred a buried strength inside John and he latched onto it, nodding silently.

"I'll help you, buddy," Ronon added, his hand closing around John's right wrist.

John took a deep breath, and held strongly to that thread of strength as he returned Ronon's grip. They had to move, had to stay ahead of the natives, had to get to the jumper. John knew it wasn't just his life at stake; it was Ronon's too, because the big man would die right beside him before he ever left him behind.

Ronon was his teammate and his friend… and John simply would not let it come to that. The thought alone drove him, awoke a strength deep inside that carried him to his feet.

Upright, John lurched forward and into his friend, but Ronon held firm and steadied him. Silently, he took John's arm over his shoulder and they started off into the woods.

The passage of time was hard for John to gauge. He knew it'd been hours. When they were finally on the move again, it'd barely been dawn, and the full light of day had been on them for quite a while now. But how many hours, he hadn't a clue. His world had steadily narrowed until the only thing that existed to him was his tenuous grip on Ronon, and his stubborn determination to stay on his feet. The trees thinned somewhat as they move out of the thick forest towards the grasslands where they'd left the jumper, which meant less obstacles for him to trip on and try to avoid. Given his tenuous balance, John took that as a small victory. Somewhere, he found his voice, if barely. "Gonna… take that…gun?" he quipped weakly.

"Nope," Ronon answered staunchly.

"Can't… even draw… it now," John managed. He staggered hard against Ronon, forcing the big man to stop for a moment and stabilize him.

"You will if you have to," Ronon's voice was confident. "You always find a way."

Panting hard and shallow, John weakly arched his brows. "Not so… sure."

"I am," Ronon answered without hesitation. "You're still standing."

John's knees shook, his balance wobbly at best and darkness tinged his vision. "Don't think… for long…." He blinked hard, trying to concentrate as Ronon stiffened an instant before his head snapped left, his gaze focusing on the trees.

"What?" John managed. He turned his head, following Ronon's gaze but saw only still trees. Over the pounding in his head, he heard nothing but silence and wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. He looked back at Ronon, whose gaze narrowed. He seemed to be staring through the trees, like he could see something more.

"Ronon?" John prompted his friend.

"They're back there," Ronon answered, his voice low.

"Oh," John swallowed hard, his grip tightening on Ronon as he wobbled. "So much for… optimism."

Ronon looked around. "They're going to catch us." His voice carried a note of finality. "Gotta find a defensible spot." He shifted John's arm higher on his shoulder and grabbed John's waistband firmly. "C'mon." He hauled his friend along, practically lifting him off his feet as he set off on a strong pace.

John tried to keep up, but he couldn't make his leaden legs move any faster and in the end, Ronon pretty much carried him as they wove through the trees. John could feel Ronon's deep and fast breaths of exertion as he kept the grueling pace. "Slow… down," John insisted, but Ronon only kept his pace.

"Can't," Ronon answered between breaths. "Gotta keep as much of a lead as we can."

The jarring pace and searing pain that started anew in John's shoulder reduced his voice from words to strangled grunts as he lost the fight to run in an effort just to stay conscious. Ronon must've felt his legs buckle and he stopped, lowering John to the ground and against a tree.

John felt like he was floating, the hard ground feeling as soft as a feather bed and his mind rapidly retreating into itself. He desperately clung to consciousness, the danger they faced the only thing keeping him away from the blackness. He pulled in a deep breath and forced his eyes open. Next to him, Ronon crouched, loaded crossbow in hand, his eyes fixed on the woods in the direction they'd come from. It was only then that John heard the sound of snapping branches. His battered body responded to instinct, adrenaline flooding him at the unavoidable fight he knew was only minutes away at most. His hand settled on the gun.

"Small group," Ronon whispered. "They've probably broken off into small search parties, trying to find us. Our tracks would've been hard to find during the night, so they fanned out."

John forced himself to sit up straighter, his wounded arm protesting the movement. He hissed and grunted against it, before beating back the pain with another groan, this one in frustration. "Damn… it," he spat. "These ones were… lucky enough to… find us?"

Ronon looked down at him. "Unlucky." He glanced down at the gun, then back at John's face. "Don't shoot unless you have to."

John nodded, catching Ronon's meaning. "The gunshot'll be heard… for miles."

Ronon nodded. "Yep. I'll handle this."

John tightened his grip on the .45 and drew it, before resting it on his thigh. "Be… careful."

Ronon looked back at him, a mask of deadly determination falling over his expression. He nodded once and stood, slowly, then quietly crossed the small clearing.

Suddenly, four natives burst out from the underbrush. Each held spears which they swiftly raised. Their gazes fixed on Ronon and John and they charged, their shouts echoing off the trees.

Ronon stood rock solid, his presence between the attackers and John indomitable. Without hesitation, he fired, taking one of the natives in the chest. The force of the crossbow bolt threw the man backwards and he slammed to the ground, dead.

With no time to reload, Ronon dropped the crossbow and swiftly drew his sword. As they moved closer, he twirled the sword expertly and lifted it, grasping the hilt with both hands before charging directly at them, his own shout joining theirs. Ronon's stride never faltered as he swept his sword upward, catching the first hunter's spear mid shaft and shattering it. He lashed out with his fist and struck another one in the face, then buried his sword point in the belly of the third native, who was trying to slip by him and reach John. Ronon turned, facing the native with the broken spear, who abandoned it and drew a long knife from a sheath at his waist.

The native Ronon had struck in the face quickly recovered, lowered his spear and charged.

Faced with a two front fight, Ronon scrambled backwards, trying to keep both of his attackers in his line of sight, but they spread apart, charging from opposite directions.

"Ronon!" John's shout was weak at best. He lifted his .45, struggling to hold the heavy weapon steady and find a clean shot, but between the blur of motion and his dimmed, doubled vision, John couldn't trust himself to fire and not hit Ronon in the process.

Ronon took the spear on the edge of his sword and parried, trying to duck his other attacker's knife in the process. Overextended, the attacker with the spear stumbled. Ronon spun and sank the long edge of his sword deep into the man's side, who collapsed with a loud cry. Ronon turned to parry the knife blow coming right at him, but was a half breath too late. He staggered backwards with a shout as his attacker's knife grazed down his right side.

John's grip on the trigger tightened. Ronon's retreat left him with a clear target and in that moment, clarity strengthened John. His pain faded and his vision cleared. Ronon was wounded, his defenses momentarily gone, and that was all the time his attacker needed. The strength of John's convictions, his absolute adherence to his own rules for protecting his team fortified his grip, his concentration and his shot. He squeezed the trigger, dropping the attacker with two shots in his chest.

Ronon staggered upright, his sword held ready for a moment, his eyes scanning each of the attackers before he slowly lowered it.

John's shaking hand fell to the ground, the adrenaline pumped strength of the moment swiftly fading from his body. His head fell hard against the tree. Over the pounding in his ears, he heard Ronon crouch next to him.

"Sheppard?" Ronon's voice was out of breath and strained.

John peeled his eyes open. "Had… to," he said weakly, knowing Ronon would understand.

"Yeah," Ronon nodded, "thanks." He smiled just a little. "Knew you still had it in you."

John grunted. "Gone… now." He weakly lifted his head just a little. "How… bad?"

Ronon looked down at his side. "Not too deep. Just a scratch."

Memories of rebar buried in his side flashed through John's head. "Your… idea of 'just a… scratch'… and mine are… sometimes pretty different." He took a deep breath, his own pain threatening to knock him out cold. "Bandage… it." His head fell back again and he listened, trying to tune out the roaring in his ears and concentrate on listening to Ronon as he pulled a bandage from the pack and took care of his wound. "Gotta… move," John whispered. "Others… hear the shots…"

"Do you really think you can stand?" Ronon's tone was direct and though his words were questioning, his voice wasn't.

John took stock of his body, what he could feel anyway. His hands and legs were numb, he could hardly open his eyes, and doubted that he could even lift his head. Still, in the small parts of his mind still capable of rational thought, he knew his gunshots would bring all the other natives out there, right down on him and Ronon. They had to move. "Sure," his voice broke over the word. His hand flopped around on the ground as he tried to lift it. "Help… me." Through all his misery, he could practically hear Ronon shaking his head.

"Not going anywhere," Ronon answered after a minute.

John opened his eyes, just barely and through the haze he could see Ronon staring at him. He swallowed hard and drew in a shallow, shaking breath. "Yeah," he whispered and saw Ronon nod.

"Yeah." Ronon shifted forward and squeezed John's good shoulder. "Stay awake, Sheppard. I'm going to scout the perimeter. Won't be long."

"Ronon," John's whisper stopped the big man before he stood. "Take… the damned… gun." Through slit eyelids, he tried to glare at his friend. "They know… we're… here… anyway."

Ronon nodded and took the gun from John's limp hand. Reaching over John, he pulled the spare clip from his gun holster.

John watched as Ronon disappeared silently into the trees. He tried to think how long it'd been. It was day three, but when? What time? He swallowed hard and focused on staying awake. The sooner they missed their check-in, the better.

Richard Woolsey pushed back from his desk and stood, his gaze settling on the quiet, inactive Stargate. Crossing his office, he stopped in front of the large window overlooking the Gate Room. Colonel Sheppard and Ronon were overdue on their check-in and while he tried to tell himself they might just be delayed, after all they were hunting on foot in the wilderness, he still had a sinking feeling that something was wrong.

Richard sighed quietly. He'd been in command of Atlantis for close to a year, and in that time, he'd seen the seemingly normal turn abnormal and even deadly at the drop of a hat. He'd always been a bit of a pessimist, but life in the Pegasus galaxy had deepened that pessimism even more. In Pegasus, the glass was rarely half full, but almost always half empty. Honestly, he sometimes wondered how any of them managed to be optimistic about anything.

One side of his mouth turned up, just slightly, as his thoughts settled on Teyla, Torren, the Athosians and all the other peoples of the galaxy they'd helped in the five or so years they'd occupied the Ancient city. In the face of so much strife, hardship and even tragedy, that alone kept the optimism alive. They were making a positive difference, even if the price they paid was sometimes tragic in its cost.

He tried not to think of Elizabeth Weir, but so much of her spirit was woven into the expedition and the very culture of the people in the city that it was hard not to. Sometimes he swore he felt her presence in the office, Ops and everywhere in the city she'd held dear and given her life for. He owed it to her to make a difference in Pegasus, and lead the city the way she would've had she still been there.

Richard took a deep breath. And item number one was making sure her favorite but sometimes wayward Colonel and his Satedan sidekick were still in one piece. Richard's gaze narrowed as he turned and left his office, briskly walking to Ops. He stopped in front of Amelia Bank's duty station and smiled at her. "Amelia."

She smiled back. "Mister Woolsey."

"How overdue is Colonel Sheppard's check-in?" he asked.

Amelia looked down at her laptop's clock and then back up at him. "Three hours, sir."

Richard drummed his fingers on the Ancient console. "Dial the planet. I want to try to establish radio contact." He turned and walked out onto the Ops balcony, watching the gate, as the chevrons lit up. The wormhole flushed, settling into a shimmering event horizon and he looked back at Amelia, who nodded.

"Channel open, sir."

Richard turned back towards the gate and tapped his headset. "Colonel Sheppard, this is Atlantis. Please respond." He waited, grimly, as silence greeted his hail. He tried again. "Colonel Sheppard, this is Atlantis. You are overdue for your scheduled check-in. Please respond."

"What's going on?"

Richard's gaze followed the voice and he looked towards the back stairs as Rodney McKay trotted up the last few steps and crossed Ops towards him. "Colonel Sheppard and Ronon are late for their scheduled check-in and are not responding."

Rodney stopped next to him his expression annoyed and not the least bit concerned. "Well that's unsurprising. Those two are probably too busy beating their chests and shouting out their masculinity around a bonfire to remember to check in."

Richard sighed quietly. "They're three hours overdue, Doctor McKay."

"Oh." Rodney cocked his head slightly. "That's not like Sheppard." He swiftly walked into Ops and settled in front of an empty laptop. He typed a few commands. "The channel's clear, no interference." Rodney looked up at the gate, his expression thoughtful.

Richard looked back at the gate. "Colonel Sheppard, this is Atlantis, please respond." After another short period of silence he walked back to Amelia. "Shut it down and get Major Lorne up here." He looked at McKay. "Please get me all the information you can find in the database about this planet."

Rodney shook his head but started typing commands anyway. "Sheppard made a similar request before they left. I can give you what I gave him, which isn't much. The planet just wasn't that significant to the Ancients."

Richard nodded. "Find what you can and then join me in my office." He looked at Amelia. "Send Major Lorne in as well, when he arrives." Richard turned away, briskly walking across the short bridge from Ops, into his office. He sat down behind his desk and leaned back in his chair, his elbow settling on the armrest and his hand unconsciously brushing over his chin as he considered the situation at hand. Even McKay recognized that while Colonel Sheppard sometimes was not the most punctual person on base, missing a check-in by this much was not like him. The colonel was unorthodox in many ways, but missions, duty and command were not part of that. He was all business when it came to going off-world, or the safety of the base and his people. Fifteen or even thirty minutes late was one thing. Three hours was something else entirely.

He turned towards his desk and settled in behind it, his hands folded on the smooth surface as Lorne and McKay both entered his office together. "Major, Doctor," he waved at the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

Both men sat, but Lorne spoke first. "Colonel Sheppard and Ronon are in trouble?"

"Possibly," Richard answered neutrally.

"Amelia said they're three hours overdue and not responding," Lorne shifted forward and leaned his elbows on his knees. "That sounds like trouble to me."

Richard sighed quietly and nodded. "I agree." He looked at Rodney. "Doctor? What do we know about this planet?"

McKay stood and walked to the large flat panel display on the bookcase next to Richard's desk. He tapped the screen and data flashed up. "As I said before, not much. There are a few references to the planet here and there in the database but they're not very detailed." He tapped the screen again, and the information changed. "Cross references with the zoology database, showed that this is one of the few planets that had these," he waved his hand, "Yursan animals on it, in the galaxy. Other than that, its supposedly uninhabited, heavily forested and has an orbital gate. Several species of wildlife were documented, but nothing else of interest… that we can find anyway."

Richard drummed his fingers on the smooth surface of his desk. "Ronon said these Yursan were lethal. I think we need to consider that one or both of them could've been injured in the hunt."

"With only spears, swords and crossbows, it's highly likely," McKay agreed.

"Spears, swords and crossbows?" Lorne asked.

"Ceremonial Satedan hunt," Richard explained. "Ronon had to make the kill with traditional weapons, though Colonel Sheppard did take a .45."

"The Yursan?" Lorne questioned.

"Here," McKay tapped the screen and the database details were replaced with a picture of a black feline with long claws and orange eyes. "That's a Yursan." McKay winced. "Yeah… that's just… not a housecat."

"Damn," Lorne shook his head. "That's a hell of a beast."

"Leave it to the Satedans to choose an animal that nasty for a ritual hunt," McKay muttered.

Richard leaned back again and rocked slightly in his chair. "You mentioned that the planet was supposedly uninhabited?"

Rodney sighed. "Yes, well, the entry is ten thousand years old. Over the last five years, we've learned, sometimes the hard way, never to take that particular detail for granted. People move around a lot in ten thousand years. Uninhabited planets become inhabited."

"But this one has an orbital gate," Richard interjected.

"True," Rodney conceded, "but we've run into that before. The Ancients could've done it for all we know. They were sometimes, shall we say, lax, in updating their own database." A distinctly annoyed expression settled over Rodney's face.

"So we can't assume that they didn't run into natives on this planet?" Richard frowned.

"No, sir," Lorne answered. "But if they did, we can't automatically assume the natives are unfriendly either. Most of the time the opposite is true. We even have trading partners now from supposedly uninhabited planets." He sighed. "The Yursan are a known threat, and I think the most likely culprit here."

"There are too many unknowns in this entire situation," Richard groused quietly.

"There's one thing we do know for sure, Mister Woolsey," Lorne replied quietly. He looked Richard in the eyes. "Colonel Sheppard and Ronon aren't responding to an overdue check-in."

Richard abruptly pushed his chair back from his desk and folded his hands on his lap. He'd had reservations from the start in even letting Sheppard and Ronon go on this excursion, and now he felt every bit of that doubt surfacing. Could he, in good conscience, send more people into such an unknown and potentially dangerous situation?

"You need to let me take a team, sir," Lorne insisted. "Find them, make sure they're okay and, if necessary, back them up." Lorne leaned even further forward. "Both the Colonel and Ronon would do the same thing for any one of us."

Richard nodded curtly. "Alright. Who did you have in mind to take with you?"

Lorne seemed to think for a moment. "My team for one. Can we reach Teyla off-world right now?"

Richard shook his head. "Not easily. She's visiting several planets for annual trade agreements for the Athosians. I don't even think Kaanan knows for sure what planet she's on right now. We could probably find her, but it would take some time."

Lorne nodded. "Right. Time's something I don't think we have." He looked up at Rodney. "McKay? We might need your help with the jumper's sensors and locating the Colonel and Ronon."

Rodney nodded. "Right."

Lorne looked back at Richard. "That outta do it, sir. My team plus McKay. As soon as we're through the gate, we'll scan the planet before landing. Should be able to locate the colonel's jumper easily enough and hopefully get a lock on their sub-q transmitters. With any luck, we'll find them pretty fast."

Richard nodded. "You have a go, Major, as soon as you and your team are geared up."

Lorne stood. "Yes, sir." He turned and briskly walked out of the office, Rodney right behind him.

Richard watched them go. He knew he'd done the right thing and hoped the situation wasn't as serious as it felt.

The pain faded. Somewhere in the recesses of John's mind, he knew that was a bad thing, but he lacked the strength to care. Pain had assaulted him for what felt like forever and all his muddled brain could do was relish its diminishing effect.

"Sheppard."

John heard the voice calling him, seemingly distant, an echo in his mind. He knew he should respond….

"Sheppard!"

This time, the voice was more insistent and closer. John drew in a stuttering breath and groaned quietly. Something shook his shoulder insistently and his pain flared in response. John groaned again but this time managed to open his eyes, just a little. "R'non…" his response was more a growl, than a word, but Ronon nodded anyway.

"Stay awake." Ronon's voice was low and his gaze darkened. "More natives."

John panted hard, grimacing against the new onslaught of pain throbbing through his body. "Shhhit…" he whispered. He squinted, watching as Ronon loaded his crossbow. "H…how m-many…?"

Ronon shrugged and lifted the crossbow as he stood up. "Not sure. Three or four, probably."

"G-gun?" John lifted his head weakly, only to have it fall hard against the tree again.

Ronon shook his head. "Every shot brings more to us," he answered, bracing his feet and aiming towards the far side of their small clearing.

John swallowed hard and took several deep breaths, searching deeply inside for any shred of strength he could find to keep from being immobile and helpless when the attack came. He forced himself to sit forward, but pain flooded over him, slamming him back down against the tree with a strangled cry. Weakness paralyzed him, and it was all he could do to breathe and stay conscious.

"Heeey," Ronon admonished quietly but firmly as he turned his head slightly and looked at John. "Stop it."

"Aw… damn… buddy," John gasped, "c-cant help… ya."

Ronon nodded slightly, his sideways glance fixed on John. "Just stay awake. I'll do the rest." He returned his gaze forward, quietly waiting for the attack they both knew was coming.

Suddenly, two natives with bows, stepped through the trees and froze as they saw their dead tribesmen. They looked up simultaneously right at Ronon, who fired without hesitation, taking one squarely in the chest.

The other native, his bow ready, drew a bead on Ronon as the Satedan dropped his crossbow, and pulled the .45 from his waistband behind his back.

The two men fired simultaneously, the .45 shot echoing through the trees, almost masking Ronon's shout as the arrow took him in the thigh.

Alarm pierced the fog in John's mind and he forced his eyes open, watching as the native was propelled backwards by the .45 shot. Landing hard on his back, he was motionless, apparently dead. John turned his attention to Ronon, laying on his side and clutching his left thigh as strangled grunts hissed through his clenched teeth.

"R-Ronon…" John pulled on what little strength he could find, trying to lift himself up, but he only succeeded in sliding off the tree to land hard on his side. The scraps of strength he'd found fled him, leaving him lying there and staring at his friend, unable to move. "R'non…"

Ronon rolled onto his back, and using his hands and good leg, he scooted over to John. "Sheppard," he gasped. "I'm okay."

John lifted his head just a little and stared at the long arrow protruding from Ronon's leg. "Y-yeah… sure you… are." He grunted in pain as Ronon found some way to lift John's torso and push him back up against the tree. John panted, struggling to stay conscious, and felt Ronon's shoulder brush against him as the big man leaned against the tree as well. John swallowed hard. His vision was dimming, but he refused to let go, to give in to the darkness. "W-we're quite… a… a… pair," he managed and heard what he thought was a strained chuckle from Ronon.

"Yeah."

In spite of everything, John managed to smile, just a little. "Yeah." He swallowed hard. "W-wouldn't… mind if L-Lorne showed up… 'bout… now…."

"Me either," Ronon agreed.

"K-keep that .45… close." John's breathing evened out as his pain slowly faded again, the blackness in his vision threatening to take over. He clung stubbornly to the thread of consciousness he still had. With Ronon down, they didn't stand much chance against any more natives out there, and he knew it was only a matter of time before more would find them. His thoughts settled on Atlantis and their overdue check-in. Come on, guys!

Lorne's vision cleared, the moment of disorientation that always followed gate travel quickly disappearing as he banked the jumper left and headed directly for the planet. He glanced over at McKay, who was already busily typing away at the co-pilot controls.

"Scanning for the jumper." McKay's voice was distracted, his attention never leaving the console. "Bring up the HUD."

Lorne nodded and sent a silent command to the jumper, which immediately obliged.

"There." McKay pointed at a blinking blip on the HUD. "That's the jumper."

Lorne activated communications. "Colonel Sheppard, this is Major Lorne. Please respond." He waited for a minute, listening to the silence. "Colonel Sheppard, this is Lorne. Do you read me?" He looked over at McKay. "Can you get a lock on their transmitters?"

McKay's attention was back on the console. "Already on it. Calibrating the sensors now. Give me a minute."

Lorne nodded and adjusted course for the coordinates for the colonel's jumper as he began his descent into the atmosphere.

"Got it," McKay declared.

Lorne refocused his attention on the HUD and squinted at the transmitter signals. "No wonder they're not answering a hail. They're quite a ways away from the jumper." He adjusted course again, this time away from the jumper and towards the transmitter signals.

"They better not just be roasting marshmallows," McKay muttered in irritation.

Skeptical, Lorne glanced over at McKay, who stared back and sighed.

"Right," McKay admitted, "I don't think so either." He returned his attention to the console and pushed a few buttons. "Wait a minute…." His voice trailed off as he looked up at the HUD.

Lorne frowned at several dots moving towards Sheppard and Ronon's transmitter signals. "What's that?"

"Life signs," McKay answered.

"Animal or human?" Lorne asked, his frown deepening.

"Can't tell," McKay's voice was solemn, all hints of sarcasm gone. "But whatever they are, they're headed right for Sheppard and Ronon."

"I don't like this," Lorne felt like his words were echoing his gut feeling, and he steepened their descent. "ETA, seven minutes."

"I don't know if Sheppard and Ronon have that much time," McKay answered.

Lorne's gaze focused on the planet ahead as he beat back his frustration. "Best I can do," he answered, a note of finality coloring his voice.

John forced his eyes open, rustling branches spurring him to alertness. His vision was blurry and for once he hoped he was seeing double because if eight natives were charging them instead of four, they were screwed. The staccato shots from the .45 thundered in his ear as each native dropped under Ronon's rapid fire. He felt a whisper of a breeze by his ear before a resounding thud shook the tree trunk behind his head and he glanced left, his gaze momentarily fixing on a still vibrating arrow sunk into the tree inches from his head. "Cr…ap," he managed before silence descended over him. He caught a glimpse of one native retreating into the trees before he looked at Ronon. "M-maybe they'll… think twice… b-fore… attackin… 'gain…."

"Maybe," Ronon answered.

John fought to keep his eyes open, but the shaking in Ronon's voice wasn't lost on him. "L-leg?"

"Bleeding," Ronon answered.

"Damn…it," John gasped. The thread of strength he clung to keeping him conscious was weakening, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay conscious. He furrowed his brows as, over the roaring in his ears, he heard a strange new hum that seemed to vibrate off his sternum. "What…."

"Lorne."

John could practically hear the smile in Ronon's voice and he dragged his gaze upwards. At first he couldn't tell what he saw, but as he stared at it, his mind put the pieces together. Hovering just above the trees was a jumper. A weak smile popped up on his mouth. "Ca-val-ry…."

"Yep," Ronon answered.

John watched as the back hatch of the jumper lowered and two men on ropes descended slowly, carefully making their way through the branches. They touched down and though his mind was muddled, John was still able to identify them as Jorgenson and Harris from Lorne's team. Both men detached from the ropes and trotted towards him.

John managed a weak smile as Jorgenson knelt next to him.

"Sir? Can you hear me?" Jorgenson ripped a field dressing from his TAC vest pocket, shook it open and pressed it firmly against John's wound.

John groaned as the pain that had faded redoubled in strength. "Loud… and cl-clear… sergeant…."

"Sorry, sir," Jorgenson answered.

"N…natives," John managed, before he lost his voice to harsh breaths and a struggle to stay conscious against the onslaught of pain.

"What?" Jorgenson's voice was stern and demanding.

John felt like he was floating, and all the willpower in the world couldn't power him enough to form any coherent words. Through the roaring in his ears, he caught snippets of Ronon filling in the gaps and warning them of the natives. Somewhere along the way, he thought he heard Lorne and even McKay's voices over the radio and something about a rescue basket, but as darkness crept further and further into his vision, inking out daylight, faces and everything else, he couldn't be positive of anything anymore.

Suddenly, words uttered in a strong and confident tone pierced the throbbing in his head, making themselves heard as clear as day.

"We're okay, Sheppard."

John thought that maybe he'd managed to smile, just a little, his eyes finally closing as Ronon's words reassured him. Through the floating, he thought maybe he was being moved, but as darkness finally shrouded him, nothing mattered except that they were alive… and for now, that was enough.

The warmth on his face and flowing through his body was comforting, like a thick blanket on a cold day, and it gave John no incentive to fight towards consciousness. He liked it here and wanted to stay. But the insistent voice in his ear pulled at him, refusing to let him stay.

"Colonel."

He furrowed his brows, trying to deny the voice's pull, trying to stay where he was, but the voice wouldn't be deterred.

"Colonel, wake up."

He groaned weakly in protest, which only prompted the voice to be more insistent.

"Ach, no. None of that. Wake up, Colonel."

Slowly, John surrendered his fight and opened his eyes, squinting against the light overhead. He groaned again, before refocusing his vision on a shadow just to his left that slowly morphed into the smiling face of Beckett.

"There ye are," Beckett said quietly.

John frowned and winced as he swallowed against a dry throat. "Doc?" he croaked.

Beckett continued smiling. "Aye. Welcome back."

John blinked lazily as he realized the throbbing pain he'd endured was replaced with a gentle throb, more an ache than anything. He weakly arched a brow. "Doesn't hurt," he whispered.

"Aye," Beckett sounded unfazed. "Gave you something for that. Rest easy, Colonel, you're going to be fine. Back out and defending the galaxy before you know it."

John's eyes opened wider as memories came back to him. "Ronon?"

"It's all right," Beckett reassured, "he's fine too. Not as bad off as you, but you lost a lot of blood, son." Beckett stepped back from John's bed and patted him on the arm. "Get some rest. I'll check on you later."

"If I'm s'posed to rest," John mumbled, "then why'd you wake me?"

Beckett chuckled. "Had to make sure you were still in there somewhere," he quipped. "Now go to sleep."

John's eyes fell shut. Even if he wanted to defy Beckett's orders, he couldn't. The warmth pulled at him, and he gave in, falling into a deep sleep.

"Hey."

John looked up from his book and smiled as Ronon crutched over to him. The big man's left thigh was swathed in a thick bandage, and another bandage was barely visible under his scrub shirt, but other than that, he looked fit and healthy. John held onto his smile. "Hey. Beckett let you out of bed?"

Ronon eased into a chair next to John's bed. "But not out of the infirmary," he frowned.

John chuckled. "One thing at a time, buddy. At least you can get out of bed. I'm still stuck here." His smile faded, replaced with a frown.

"It'll take some time," Ronon answered, taking his turn to smile.

John nodded, his gaze settling on the long tooth, tied securely to a piece of rawhide and hanging around Ronon's neck. It was clean and polished, its gleaming white offset that much more by Ronon's dark complexion. "Nice necklace."

Ronon reached up, fingering the tooth, his smile changing from amusement to satisfaction. "Thanks." He looked down at the tooth.

John sighed deeply, wincing a little as his breath pulled on his stitches a little. "Well, in spite of everything, I'm glad you got it."

Slowly, Ronon looked up, his expression changing again. This time, regret dominated his face as he looked John directly in the eye. "Sheppard…." His voice trailed off.

John raised his hand. "Don't." His gaze narrowed. "Not your fault. Besides," he added, "I wouldn't be alive right now if it wasn't for you. Hell, I should be thanking you." He smiled just a little and raised his eyebrows slightly, imploring Ronon to believe him.

Slowly, Ronon smiled. Again, he looked down at the Yursan tooth necklace he was still fingering. For a long moment, he said nothing, and John was content to let the silence linger. Finally, Ronon looked up at him and this time gratitude colored his expression. "Thanks," he said quietly, his voice gruff.

John felt nothing but respect for his friend. The injury, even nearly dying, didn't matter much in the face of the strong bond of friendship he not only felt between them, but saw in Ronon's face. He shook his head, just a little, at how much was unspoken between them, but it seemed to be their MO and it worked for both of them. He held onto his smile. "Any time, buddy."

Ronon just nodded and looked away.

"Well," John took a deep breath and changed the subject, "what do you say to helping me out of this bed?"

Ronon looked back at him, his expression suspicious. "You're not cleared yet."

John looked around. "Well, what Beckett and Keller don't know, won't hurt them," he offered, waggling his brows. "C'mon buddy, help me out here."

"I heard that."

John closed his eyes, wincing at Keller's stern voice from behind him. "Damn," he whispered before plastering a smile on as Keller walked up next to his bed. "Doc," he smiled. "How's things?"

Keller arched a brow at him. "Don't you 'doc' me, Colonel. Carson and I didn't work this hard to put Humpty back together only to watch you fall and crack open your head." She pointed at him in a strictly no-nonsense manner. "At least two more days in that bed, before we'll even start the discussion to let you out. Clear?"

John wilted just a little under her glare. "Crystal," he muttered.

Keller turned her look on Ronon. "No helping."

Ronon's expression was bemused. He raised his hands. "No way." Grabbing his crutches, he stood as Keller left both of them alone.

John looked at him and raised his brows hopefully. "Buddy?" But Ronon just shook his head.

"Not a chance, Sheppard. Not having my walking rights taken away." He turned and crutched away, leaving John alone.

John let his head fall back against the stack of pillows behind him. "Damn." After a moment, his irritation disappeared and he smiled slightly before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, letting the healing power of sleep overtake him.

-End-