Coming Home
By Dragon's Daughter 1980
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have absolutely nothing to do with Stargate: Atlantis in any way, shape or form.
Author's Note: I would like to send an extra-special 'Thank You' to my triplet-sister who, despite knowing nothing about Stargate: Atlantis, acted as my sounding-board, editor and beta-reader for this story. This story is the sequel to Three Years to Eternity, and I strongly recommend that you read that story first before continuing on with this one.
Spoiler Warning: anything and everything up to Ghost in the Machine.
"It's time."
She looks up from her packed bags, the frayed ends of leather ties slipping out of her fingers. Jiaha, the eldest of the young women of the family-sisters and a dear friend, stands in the doorway. She can tell from the look on the younger woman's face that she's trying very hard not to cry. Unable to find her own voice, she stands up from her neatly-made bed. She runs a smoothing hand over an imaginary wrinkle in the hand-woven blanket. It is her gift to the next family-sister who will live in this room after her. She doesn't look around at the bare yet cozy furnishings of the space that, until mere hours ago, she's called hers for the past two years of her life. If she does, she's afraid that she'll lose her nerve to leave behind the only home she knows—remembers—for a future that is harshly uncertain.
She woke with his hand covering hers. Protocol told her to withdraw from his touch—he was a stranger to her in every way: a non-blood-related male with no familial or acquaintance ties to her, not even as a person of Reiia or any of her allies. Instinct made her curl her fingers over his and smile when his eyes met hers. She had held his hand before — when, she didn't know.
"Hi," she said quietly, almost shyly. She knew him, in a double-sense of stranger and friend, of past and before-past. He smiled politely back at her, carefully withdrawing his hand from her grip, his eyes searching hers almost anxiously for a hint of…something. It was almost like watching a turtle — what sort of creature was that? — curl back into its protective shell, sensing approaching danger and taking prudent action to avoid being injured.
"Good morning," he said. The silence that fell between them was awkward, not just for the silence of strangers, but for the edge of tension between them, this hint that she ought to know more of the situation than she did. It was an impasse that was broken by the arrival of one of the Lantean healers, a petite woman with brunette hair, kind brown eyes and gentle hands, who hustled him out of the room with a brisk, "Go get some rest, Colonel, before I call Ronon and Teyla down here to haul you to your quarters."
Watching him obey the other woman's orders, she felt a pang of sadness when he did not turn back to bid her goodbye before he left. She wondered what their past together was like, if they even had a past. She was distracted from her thoughts when the healer touched her shoulder and began asking questions with cheery kindness and reassuring smiles, talking her through every procedure that was unfamiliar with explanations and distracting stories.
The physical examination was brief, with the healer declaring her to be in good health, besides a nasty headache and some lingering fatigue. The cheerful woman asked her to stay for a little while longer, to make sure she "really was all right" before the other woman released her from the infirmary. The two of them exchanged warm, if polite, farewells before the healer went off to attend the rest of her duties.
Within seconds of the other woman's departure, Medora slipped silently into the room and, with brisk strides, came to her bedside. With a smooth gesture, the dark-haired diplomat unfastened her silk veil from her face and tucked the cloth absentmindedly into the belt at her waist. There was the faintest look of panic in the young woman's eyes, an expression that she had only seen a handful of times before in her friend.
In fact, the last time she had seen that glimmer of tightly controlled fear in the other diplomat's features, well… the negotiations had ended abruptly and rather violently on their hosts' part. There was hysterical screaming, attempted stabbings and threats of massacres all around. She herself had ended up taking the local mayor's daughter hostage with a dagger to the throat in order to buy time for her subordinates to escape. Needless to say, Reiia had broken off the treaty negotiations with that particular planet. She hoped that wouldn't be the case this time; given the heavy security around the 'gate and the sheer military power of their hosts, she knew that no one from their delegation had any hope of escaping from the city if the Lanteans did not allow it. This was the risk that every single diplomat took whenever they stepped off of Reiia and it was a fact of her duties that she and all of her companions accepted without qualm.
She tilted her head in silent query, only to be rebuffed by her friend's pursed lips—a subtle warning to shush. It took a moment before she could place the most recent time she had received that response. If she remembered correctly, it was nearly a year past since she had seen Medora so upset to the point of voiceless signals. She had seen it during the delicate opening negotiations with the Klictans, another incident that had nearly ended with naked steel and spilled blood. However, once certain cultural misunderstandings were resolved, the Klictans had been more than pleased to supply Reiia with a squash fruit that was a favorite of many households, in return for bolts of Reiian cloth.
With a sideways glance at the closed infirmary door, Medora gently touched her arm with cold fingers. Even though the other woman's posture appeared to be relaxed, she fancied that she could feel the concealed tension humming through her friend's muscles. All the subtle signals she was receiving told her that something was wrong, something had happened while she was unconscious that made the normally placid junior diplomat fearful for her safety. What the threat was and how severe it was, she didn't know, but Medora's behavior was enough for her to cast her eyes around the room until she saw her slim kakea baton. The polished wooden rod had been set atop of her folded clothes, and the entire stack had been nearly placed on a nearby chair within hand's reach. The kakea baton was the only weapon that she, as a diplomat, was allowed to carry with her at all times, and she took comfort in the knowledge that she was proficient enough in its defensive art to crack a man's skull if she had to.
"Asa, are you well?" asked Medora, her voice serene and unhurried as she causally used her nickname, and by doing so, sending a wordless cue for both of them to act normal. Like the majority of the diplomatic corps, the young woman was a consummate actress under pressure, able to shutter her emotions and thoughts behind a blandly polite mask when the situation called for it. She could see that those hard-trained skills were being utilized now to project an air of blissful ignorance and friendly concern over suspicious caution. She smoothly played along with her friend's act of nonchalance.
"I am fine," she responded, covering Medora's hand with her own. She lightly squeezed the young woman's fingers, signaling acknowledgement of the situation. "Help me?"
The younger woman responded with a nod and immediately held out her hands to assist her in standing. Assuming that they were at the least being eavesdropped upon, if not covertly watched, she laughed quietly, "I am not a complete invalid."
Medora relaxed her posture even more, nearly appearing indolent to a casual observer, and smiled slightly, "I never implied that you are, but you are my elder…" There was a mirthful way to her words, an amusement that did not extend to her eyes, even though the rest of her body spoke to her supposed ease of mind. She turned around, picked up the soft boots that were tucked underneath the chair, and handed the footwear to her.
"Oh please…" She rolled her eyes as she slipped on the warm leather shoes before she wrapped the bedclothes around her. Setting the kakea rod on the bed within easy reach of either woman, Medora handed her the neat stack of her uniform.
"Do you need help?"
"Only for the lacing," she responded, shamelessly unknotting the ties of the odd backless gown and letting the white cloth fall into her lap before she quickly slipped her shapeless white tunic over her head. The silky cloth was cold against her skin, but it felt familiar and comfortable to her. She tugged her curls out of the way as Medora let out a breathless chuckle and reached over to do the loose ties of the knee-length tunic, tightening the lacing only enough to give the faintest hints of the older woman's figure. As required by their station as members of the higher diplomatic corps, both women wore their tunics loosely to turn their counterparts' focus to their words, rather than on the shape of their bodies as some members of the lower corps were comfortable with. As her friend performed that task, she occupied herself with folding the shapeless gown into a neat square and placed it on the rumpled bedsheets.
Once Medora was done, she carefully slipped off of the edge of the infirmary bed. When her balance wavered, her friend was there with a steadying hand under her elbow. She shook her head carefully, declining the younger woman's silent offer of help before she picked up the singular cloth that formed her petticoat and loosely wrapped the long cloth around her waist to create a wide skirt. Without a word, Medora pulled the ties out of her hands and adjusted them to knot at her left hip. She held back a sigh at her friend's over-attentiveness (even though she was still shaky on her feet), and turned her attention to slipping into her formal gown, the spring-green dress that was her identifying color for these negotiations. This part, she needed Medora's assistance, since the buttons that fastened the back of her formal robes were beyond the reach of her flexibility to do without performing physically impossible contortions.
After she was properly laced and buttoned into her clothes, it only took another minute or two before she had the comfortable weight of her kakea rod resting against her thigh, one end of the wooden baton fastened to her belt with a deceptively-delicate looking silver chain. Besides acting as an anchor, the chain could be used in a debilitating blow across the eyes or mouth of an attacker, if wielded properly. When that was done, Medora handed her the last part of her outfit: her veil.
There was something in the other woman's eyes that made her pause before she accepted the two pieces of silk and the requisite fastening pins. She asked softly, the words barely drifting into the air between them, "What is wrong?"
Medora shook her head slightly, her voice just as low when she responded, "I am not sure. Sebian is speaking with them."
Recognizing the evasive maneuver, she leveled a stern look at the young woman, "What are you not telling me?"
"They…" The sliding hiss of the door interrupted their conversation and both women turned around to see Mr. Richard Woolsey, the leader of Atlantis, move cautiously into the room. It did not escape her notice that Medora's hands had immediately come to rest demurely on her own kakea rod, fingers positioned in a way to have the baton in hand and ready to throw in a heartbeat. Still wondering what had transpired to make the younger woman so protective, she let herself copy her friend's posture.
"Excuse me," said Mr. Woolsey apologetically before he cleared his throat, "My apologies for the interruption, Diplomat Asabeth. Diplomat Medora, but I believe Councilor Sebian is looking for you."
He gave them both a half-bow, and she recognized the gesture as one of his nervous actions. For some reason, everyone around her was highly unnerved by…something. Medora inclined her head in acknowledgement of the message as she dropped in a slight curtsey, but made no move to leave the room. Instead, she stared at the older man with an expression akin to polite defiance. In response, his expression was diplomatically bland, but both women could sense his apprehension. He clearly did not want to escalate to meet Medora's silent challenge.
"He was somewhat urgent in his request to speak to you," prompted Mr. Woolsey again when he saw Medora clearly had no intention of leaving her friend's side. The tension in the room grew thick enough to cut with a knife. Following her instincts, she decided that the situation had gone quite far enough, and that it needed to be defused before the negotiations broke down completely.
"Mei," she murmured lowly, a quiet warning and reassurance that she could handle herself. She had her kakea rod nearly in hand and at the ready. She could easily hold off a single attacker and handle two with grace. While she would be cautious, she didn't see the Lantean leader as a threat. He was nowhere near as young or robust as the muscular Town Guards she trained with on a daily basis.
Hearing the implicit orders in her tone, Medora nodded sharply, her displeasure clear in the worried glare she subtly shot at her friend as she said with cold civility, "Thank you, Mr. Woolsey."
"Diplomat Asabeth," Medora gave her a crisp half-bow of respect and she kept her expression neutral, betraying none of her surprise at the unexpected gesture. Besides the fact that the younger diplomat was her senior in rank, not the other way around, the old protocol formalities had been done away with generations ago, being judged as too cumbersome and complex to fluently teach all their negotiating diplomats. Medora continued, "I will return shortly."
All three negotiators in the room heard the implicit warning and sharp reminder in the young woman's words. There was already common courtesy observed, but for some reason, with the heavy stress the young woman put on Asabeth's title, she wanted it to be clear that this respect would continue. His body language revealing his acknowledgment of her unease, Mr. Woolsey carefully made way for her as she swept out of the room. He waited until Medora was gone before he approached her, hovering just out of arm's reach.
"I would like to apologize for what happened yesterday," he began steadily. "Would you permit me to explain?"
"Yes," she said quietly, gesturing at the empty chairs in the room with her free hand, "Please, let us sit and talk."
He nodded, "That would be a good idea."
Stepping over the threshold, she nearly collides with Medora, her companion on that fateful trip to the city of the Ancestors. The other woman reaches out to steady her balance, and then doesn't let go. There is an expression of intense concentration on the young woman's face before she launches herself at Asabeth and holds on. It's the comforting embrace of a sister, and she clings back just as tightly. She sees Jiaha slip out of the room, carrying her bags and she mouths a silent "thank you" to the woman who merely inclines her head in acknowledgement.
By all rights, Medora shouldn't be here, standing in this corridor, biding her farewell like a blood-sister. While the Reiians do not hold the women of the Sister-House responsible in any way for the variety of circumstances that led to their residence in this communal building, tradition still forbade any female visitors with still-living kin to set foot in the House. With a large blood-family of her own, Medora ought to be waiting to say her proper and formal farewells with the rest of the Diplomatic Corps, not now, and most certainly not here.
Asabeth suspects that only Jiaha knows that the quiet young woman is in the House and she vows to never forget this kindness. Out of all the family-sisters, Jiaha is perhaps one of the most perceptive young women the House has fostered, and so while Asabeth has never spoken at length about the depth of her relationship with her colleague-friend, Jiaha knows what the younger woman means to Asabeth. Medora is a true sister and trusted friend, someone who willingly took the higher path and offered a helping hand to a trainee diplomat when it would have been easier to simply ignore her. The distant leave-taking ceremony that will take place at the edge of town will not come close to expressing the close bonds between the two of them. This embrace alone will have to somehow suffice for all the hours they have spent together in each other's company, learning, instructing and simply laughing. Medora has been her ever constant guide, unlikely friends they might have been, and it will be difficult to be without her presence and humor. What will be the hardest, though, is not knowing when, if, they will ever see each other again. That is the uncertainty that threatens to drown out her fragile hopes.
"Be safe," whispers Medora before she pulls away, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. "Please promise me, you will be happy. Don't hesitate to come back to visit, and if anything happens, if you ever need anything at all, come here and find me. I'll always—"
"I know," she says simply, stilling her friend's babble. "I know. I will never forget our time together. Never. Thank you for everything."
She kisses Medora's cheek before she whispers, "May the Ancestors be with you."
It is a blessing that is returned with ardent fervor before the other woman grasps both of her hands for a long moment. Then Medora tears herself away, hurrying down the empty hallway, heading for the back of the House where there is a private door that will let her slip out unseen. Asabeth takes a moment to compose her emotions before she turns around one last time to see a familiar view. From the bed, to her desk and finally to the window of the room, she memorizes the layout of the furnishings, trying to imprint this memory so deeply that she will never forget this sanctuary. If she ever returns, as is her right as a former family-sister, this room will probably belong to someone else, a child or young woman, left alone in these worlds. With a steady hand, she grasps the doorknob and pulls the door shut, hearing it lock with a click. She closes her eyes and murmurs a prayer of safekeeping.
She has no safe haven now to turn to.
She's putting all of her faith in the word of one man.