A/N: I'm very nervous about this story - first, it's long (much longer than anything I've ever written). Second, it is technically an AU, but let me explain! The best way to describe it is that it's a bit of a time-shift AU: everything on the Atlantis side is canon up through early season two (pre-Runner); Ronon and Sateda are where they were at before the Wraith attacked and destroyed them. Basically, the story addresses the question, what if Sateda's fight against the Wraith had happened in early season two after the Atlantis expedition arrived in Pegasus, and what if those two groups met? Have I utterly confused you now? Even if you're not much of a fan of AU, I hope you give this a chance...

Huge thanks to my wonderful betas everybetty, wildcat88 and pheral. I couldn't have finished this without you all!

Possession

Chapter 1—Prologue

Infantry Division Commander Gilm Langus of the Southern Coastal Region fumbled with his keys in the dark before finding the right one and slipping it into the lock of his comfortable suburban home. The sound of waves crashing against Sateda's famous coastal cliffs echoed behind him. It had been a long day, and he shrugged stiffly out of his coat before flipping the entryway light on. With a quick glance out into the darkened street, he shut his door and fastened both bolts tightly closed.

It had not been just a long day—it had been a long few months. He sighed, reaching both hands up to his neck to massage the tired muscles. He dragged himself into the kitchen, decided he wasn't all that hungry after all, and settled for a glass of Brose Endel. It was a little less potent than some of the locally brewed ale, but Langus thought himself something of a connoisseur. Brose Endel was a world-famous brandy and left a softer, less bitter aftertaste than most of the cheaper alcoholic options. It was expensive, and it tasted it.

He moved into the darkened study and relaxed into the reading chair set up near the window. He had a spectacular view from this room—the main reason he had bought this particular home rather than some of the less expensive housing options on the military base. He was a division commander, though, and that entailed certain lifestyle expectations—entertaining dignitaries and higher-ups first and foremost on the list. Langus's parties were well-known throughout the military ranks.

The ice in the glass jingled softly as he drained the last of the brandy. He held the cool glass to his forehead for a moment, closing his eyes and letting the fatigue wash over him before pouring himself another glass. He rarely drank more than one glass in the evening, but today had been particularly long and difficult, and he excused himself the small extravagance. He could afford two glasses tonight. Maybe even three.

His thoughts drifted back to earlier that day. The meeting at the capital with the other division commanders, master chiefs, generals and adjunct generals, and even the head of the Satedan military himself—Chieftain Madal—had been long and arduous, and perhaps the most important in all of Sateda's history. Langus should have known what to expect—they were all military men after all—but he seemed to be the lone voice of dissent in their great plan to make a stand against the Wraith once and for all.

He heard his father's voice from so long ago, laughing at his decision to pursue a military career. Military? You're not made for the military, boy. You're too soft—you enjoy the pleasures of life too much. Langus grunted, sipping at the glass in his hand. After all these years, his father long dead and in the grave, maybe he could finally admit the man might have been on to something. Langus had never liked fighting, always looking for an easier, less violent way out.

"How the hell did you make it this far, my friend?" he mumbled to himself. He may not be the stereotypical military man, but he knew people and knew how to be in the right place at the right time. He had worked his way up the ranks, scarcely ruffling a feather the entire way, which was a feat in and of itself.

But now Sateda wanted to fight the Wraith directly. He shook his head, swallowed the rest of the brandy including the two ice cubes, and slammed the glass on the small table next to his chair. Fight, fight, fight. That's all anyone had talked about all day. He stood up from the chair and moved closer to the window. The moon was full and bright, and Langus could just make out the ocean swirling darkly at the bottom of the cliffs.

Maybe you should retire to your little beachfront home and let the rest of us men deal with the war against the Wraith. Langus heard Commander Kell's voice in his head again, the derision and contempt thick after Langus had attempted to talk reason into the group of military commanders for the umpteenth time. He'd snapped then, retorting that he would if he thought he'd have a home to retire to, but he was sure the Wraith would wipe them out completely if they tried to fight now. He'd thrown his reports and numbers, his carefully crafted case, across the room before storming out, and sixteen months of studying and reporting the state of readiness of all of Sateda's military forces, the latest debriefs on strikes against the Wraith, and every scrap of intel ever gathered on the Wraith themselves fluttered across the quiet room.

Waste. It had been a complete waste. He had never stood up to any of the higher-ups before in his life, so that should have been their first indication that he was serious. It was not a decision he had taken lightly, and he had stuck to it for over a year. He was a respected military officer, commanding all of the infantry forces over the entire southern coastal region. Nothing compared to that in terms of prestige and influence, except maybe the capital region command, but no one had listened. Ever. No one had bothered to take him seriously. He'd been open to the idea of fighting the Wraith at the beginning, the thought of eliminating them as a threat to Sateda a hope no one could quite dismiss, but months of careful study had convinced him that it was a dream.

They couldn't beat the Wraith—not like this. Not with the weapons and military manpower they had at the moment. Maybe in the future, with better technology and better intel, but not now. He had built his argument against fighting the Wraith, accounted for every question or doubt or loophole anyone might have presented to him, and they had rejected him before he'd even had a chance to talk.

"Damn you, Kell," he said, his voice echoing in the dark room. He turned away from the window, rubbing at tired eyes. All his work had been building up to this moment and it had come to naught. The three-hour trip home had been exhausting, his body thrumming with anger as he tried to figure out his next step. Go to the public? Go to the President directly?

He sighed, feeling a deep sadness come over him, and he realized he didn't care anymore. They could all throw themselves at the Wraith, but he was done. He was more tired than he ever remembered feeling. Maybe retirement wasn't such a bad idea. A little earlier than he had been planning, but only by a few years. What difference did it make that it probably wouldn't last that long anyway?

The muscles in his neck and shoulders unclenched a little, and he relaxed. The Brose Endel was thrumming through his bloodstream now, and the stress of the day began to wane a little. One more glass, he thought to himself. One more glass, then maybe I'll take the day off tomorrow, enjoy the day lounging on the porch and listening to the waves crashing against the cliffs.

He was in the middle of pouring his third glass when he heard the house creak, the sound reverberating through the empty rooms. He paused in his pouring, glancing up toward the door. The room was still dark and he thought maybe he should turn the light on. The house was not very old, but the humid climate had it continuously creaking and settling on its foundation. He poured the last of the brandy into his glass then moved across the room to flip a light on. He sipped as he walked, savoring the soft, warm taste on the back of his tongue.

The house creaked again, and he paused, tilting his head. The sound had been a little more localized, a little more specific. He knew he was home alone but it had sounded like the creak of a floorboard, the scrape of a booted foot against the polished wood. He was still standing in the dark study, glass in hand, but his heart had started to beat faster and adrenaline pumped through his veins with sudden foreboding.

He set the glass down and flipped the light switch to the study. The switch clicked uselessly and the room stayed dark. A blown fuse? There hadn't been any coastal storms lately, but it was getting to be that time of year. He moved forward slowly, out into the dark hallway. He lived alone, always had, but he had the distinct impression that he was not alone at the moment. He gazed around, his eyes straining at the dark corners, searching for the shadow that should not be there.

"Who's there?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound calm and steady, although he could feel his hands shaking. He was the Division Commander of the Southern Coastal Region, but he was not a military man. No, he was a military man—just not of the combat ranks. He was not that kind of military man. He was not a fighter, never to be mistaken for one of those endlessly worshipped Satedan warrior heroes of the past.

Silence settled around him, enveloping him and his instincts. Langus wondered briefly if he should have stuck to one glass of Brose Endel a night—two glasses were making him paranoid. He thought of his coat hanging in the entryway, his pistol still strapped to the inside holster. He had never fired a weapon in combat. Thirty-four years in the military, and he had never fired his weapon outside of the shooting range, and even that had only been required once a year.

His feet scraped across the floor, and he cursed his inability to move with stealth. The house was pitch black, and he only narrowly avoided running into the small cabinet set up in the hallway. A headache was beginning to build behind his eyes, pounding in time with his heart.

Langus reached the entryway, glancing around but seeing nothing. He tried the light switches but wasn't surprised when they didn't work either. He was halfway through the entryway, one hand reaching out for his coat, when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Langus."

"Who are you? What do you want?" Langus cried out, his voice breaking. A braver man might have spun around, raised his fists, or widened his stance to fight. Langus stood frozen, his coat and weapon just a few feet away hanging on a hook in the wall. He glanced over at it, wondering if he could get to it before the intruder stopped him.

"Don't even think about it, Commander."

"Commander. You know who I am?"

"Infantry Division Commander Gilm Langus, I know exactly who you are."

"What do you want?" Langus's voice sounded small, the house large and menacing and growing more so around him. He heard the soft scuffle of a foot behind him, but before he could spin around to face the threat, something wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He felt a rope, thick and rough, wrap around his neck, then tighten.

"I want you, Langus," the voice answered. A man's voice. Whoever he was, he was large and very strong, and the rope cinched tighter around Langus's throat. Langus choked out a breath, wiggling to loosen the man's grasp on him, but to no avail.

"Please…" he breathed out, but the only response his attacker gave was to pull harder on the rope. Langus coughed, and his legs turned to rubber beneath him. He felt his knees beginning to bend, unable to hold up his weight for much longer, but the man with the rope held strong. Langus opened his mouth again, intent on begging, bribing, and anything else that would get him out of this situation, but no sound came out. His legs gave way completely, but the man held him up by the rope around his throat and the dark house grew darker and the ocean outside grew louder until Commander Gilm Langus of the Southern Coastal Region saw nothing ever again.

TBC…