1The walk is peaceful, green, fresh. She inhales deeply, filling her lungs with blessedly saltless air.
Chatter surrounds her and she releases a grin from somewhere buried deep inside.
Her cheeks stretch.
In her step is a bounce she had long ago forgotten.
She wonders how she can feel so trapped in the mythical wonderland that is Atlantis, windows opening out on a literal sea of beautiful possibilities – red, yellow, blue. Infinite.
As the sun pries open her eyes she vows to spend more time outside the confines of her office.
----
The meeting is cut and dried – routine to the point that she contemplates unplugging her mind for a brief respite.
Heads bob and chests puff.
Next season's harvests will yield more than adequate crops to feed our people. It would be selfish of us to keep it to ourselves.
Birds chirp. The sky sings.
Our physicians are more than capable of treating these symptoms. I'm sure Doctor Beckett would be willing to speak with your healers about the process.
She catches Major Lorne in a yawn.
He catches her in a daydream.
----
Even without Sheppard to guide it, trouble manages to find them.
Peace is shattered instantaneously.
Warm eyes turn cold and hard.
A strangled gasp crawls from a distant throat.
One man becomes ten. Ten become twenty. Twenty become –
She stops breathing for a fraction of a second and when she resumes the pace of her pulse has quickened exponentially.
Everyone is grabbing, shouting, clashing. She feels that she should grab someone on principle.
----
A paper-thin slice across the fleshy part of her forearm is the only physical mark of the encounter that she bears. She earned it by ripping away from her own corporal's grasp. The action was futile. Even now he pushes her through the Gate.
We can't leave them! she shouts ineffectually into the blue.
The marine appears again, his face wracked with guilt yet his words distinctly lacking in it.
You're my charge, ma'am. I have to keep you safe.
Me, she screams inside her head, what about them?
The damsel-in-distress hat never did fit her. She shifts uncomfortably under its pressure.
----
You are not going back there.
Something flairs. Her temper is only a fraction of it.
As I am sure you are keenly aware, Colonel, you are my subordinate. Orders are what you receive, not what you give.
Anger manifests itself in the form of heat rushing to her head like water through a fire hose. Dark brown curls fall over her reddening ears.
It's not safe.
It's necessary.
I won't let you do this.
I'm not asking your permission. It was an ambush, John. Syrio was just as surprised as we were. We can still save Lorne and his team, but I need to get back there.
You don't need to do anything, Elizabeth. Negotiating is not going to halt a coup!
The argument is taking precious time. Her brain swirls with doubt and questions but she swallows them whole. The only thing she knows is that she must fix this. Steeling her will, she turns back to the Stargate.
Violence isn't always the answer. I'm going.
----
On the other side of the event horizon the world is sepia. She squints against the light and searches desperately for a familiar face.
She finds him, but only because they found her first.
Shouting into the wind she creates almost as much ripple as a teardrop in the ocean.
Rough hands claim her, leading her down into darkness. Grey walls, grey floors, grey bars, grey world.
Cold, unforgiving.
Her new surroundings swirl into focus and her eyes land on Major Lorne.
The colonel was right, she muses as her body numbs.
He was dead before she got there.
Lifeless eyes look back at her and sorrow, anger and fear morph into an overwhelming and suffocating horror. It clutches at her lungs like a vice grip.
A trap.
Predictable, though she did not predict it.
John will never let me hear the end of this, she whispers as callous hands wrap around her arms and toss her into the abyss.
Pain scratches at her insides, a cat in a bag.
Sharp. Dull. Fleeting. Constant.
She's absently aware of the hum of her breath and the smell of rage.
----
This is something she's never tasted before.
The sensation is thick and salty. It's tangy yet dull.
Licking her lips, she is surprised to find moisture there. She had no idea she was crying.
The flavor stings and her taste buds prickle as if mounting defense.
Brushing her palm across her cheek, her skin slips across a solid layer of liquid. Perhaps 'crying' was an understatement. To account for this river she would have to be bawling.
Her hand pulls back to reveal the blackest of reds.
An opaque drop splashes on her exposed knee.
Footsteps boom in rapid succession, igniting the corridor. The familiar clenching of her gut tells her he's close.
Oh my –
She looks up at his face as the sound meets her ears, invades her head and begins to echo. Oh my, oh my, ohmyohmy…
He finds his footing. Are you okay?
She blinks at the question.
Sure, fine. You?
He rolls his eyes before grasping her hand tugging her into motion. Warmth.
Ask a stupid question… It is her voice that she hears – cool and crisp. The first bite of a green apple.
Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor.
Was she joking?
----
She is entirely unsure of how they got to this point, but manages to register thankfulness.
Behind her the walls of the foreign city shrivel and fade, slipping into the colorless void.
Footfalls echo in her ears, jumbled together with the pings and pangs of metal on metal. With the sickening thud of bullets stopped by sheets of flesh.
His hand finds the center of her back and shoves. Hard.
She loses her footing.
Her body undulates violently as it forcefully connects with the earth. Pain spikes at each successive point of contact. Contrary to expectation she does not crack like a whip.
Dust and dirt fill her nose and smother her lungs.
Bullets firing and the pounding in her head crescendo in unison. Her skull contracts and releases.
Contract.
Release.
Contract.
Goose bumps ripple across her flesh.
She does not open her eyes. Perhaps because she lacks sufficient energy. Perhaps because she is afraid of what she will see.
----
She rematerializes on the other side of the event horizon in exactly the same condition as she entered. Disappointing. As long as the wormhole is putting things back together it ought to right them.
His hand is on her back again. Soft. Tentative. Guiding, this time.
Her feet move beneath her, but she does not know where they will take her.
A stretcher appears before her and her legs are relieved of the burden.
Is she okay?
They do not speak in her direction. It's just as well. Words have lost their essence.
She will be.
----
The sheets are cool but soft, cocooning her weary form in threads of silky blue.
Inhaling deeply, she almost expects the sweet smell of lavender before she realizes that she is no longer a child safely tucked in the warmth of her youth.
Instead her nose is filled with the musk of sweat and the thick darkness of midnight.
She shifts, her bare skin detaching from his – ripping the bonds of perspiration, like peeling cellophane from glass.
The muscles in his arm tighten around her chest, squeezing out the question she did not know she harbored.
Am I okay?
His body presses to hers as if space was poison and contact was air.
You will be.
--End--