Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and its many characters are not mine. Maybe in a parallel dimension they might be, but sadly not in this one.
Spoilers: None.
Note: Warning—implied character death. If you don't wish to read, turn back now. Also, sorry for the lack of updates, but life got in the way for a bit there. This was partly inspired by a black and white photo I recently saw of a lovely field of daisies and partly by the Meet Joe Black soundtrack (one of many favourite movies). Sorry for any errors too, this was written in one sitting and edited in another, so I may have missed something. An attempt at a poetic death fic—hope it works.
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Where Flowers Grow- - -
She sees daisies.
Daisies everywhere, swaying lazily in a soft breeze that she can't feel, though she knows one must be blowing, for the grasses are bowing steadily to and fro at her feet. Their yellow centers are turned towards the brilliant sun, the ivory of their petals gleaming under the bright light—reminiscent of an idyllic photograph come to life.
She feels as though she should know this place, as though the ground beneath her is something familiar. The air is heady with the sweet smells of grass and that particular aroma that seems to follow in the wake of summer. Indescribably tangy, promising, and just a hint of the beckoning warmth that the later hours will provide.
The greenery looks as soft as velvet, and she is tempted to stretch her legs out across the blanket of grass, throw her head back into the beckoning sunlight and soak up the peace that this place seems to exude. But something stops her from bending down, from taking those precious few moments to enjoy the summer day.
Glancing around, she wonders why this impression of unease hasn't left her senses despite the serenity that has settled all around her. There is something missing, something she has yet to do before she can fully relax, but exactly what that is evades her. With a furrow of her brow she tries to think back to what she was doing last, but the memories of her day are fuzzy and hard to see. Her city is usually so prominent in her mind, but right now it has faded into the background whilst the sweet scent of the flowers around her tickle her nose into full awakening.
But there is a faint tugging at her conscious and no matter how captivating the place is, she feels a need to try. To try and grasp that elusive thought teasing her mind, so she struggles to remember what exactly she has to do before she can settle among the dancing flowers.
Absently, she crosses her arms across her abdomen as the barricade holding back the memories stands strong, valiantly trying to bring the imposing wall down. So lost is she in her thoughts that her reaction is delayed to the strange wet substance that is oozing through the sleeves of her jacket.
But she notices the wet sensation on her arms eventually, draws them away from her body in confusion and stares down in bewilderment at the stain that has crawled along the tan fabric. The stain is fresh, shiny and dark, with a gleam of red brought out by the glaring sun.
Afraid to look down—yet knowing that this is the answer to the uneasy feeling that is plaguing her—she takes a deep breath and does what must be done. Time freezes as her eyes catch sight and take hold of the bright red stain that has covered the entire lower half of her white shirt, as well as that of her jacket. It is still fresh, apparent by the accompanying moist sheen on the stain, gleaming under the light.
There is no pain though, even as her trembling fingers brush against the soaked shirt, but her bravery stops short at lifting the hem and seeing what exactly was causing the bleeding.
She is certain that it wasn't there before, for the sensation of wet clothes has only just touched her skin, and begins to try her damndest to think back to what she was doing—to what event could have possibly lead her to this place, to the field of flowers, to the blood that is crawling along the fabric around her waist.
But to her frustration, that barricade holds steadfast, and she feels as though she is barely making a crack in its stony surface. There are hardly any memories left in her head, only fuzzy snatches of people's faces, of tiny moments that had always been insignificant but now seem to be the only ones of importance.
Another person might have let the matter drop, giving in to their frustrations in the form of anger, tears, or unheard screams. Yet Elizabeth does what she always done in such moments. Inhaling slowly, she fights the panic rising in her chest, fights off the fear and the worry and the frustation of not being able to remember, and slowly closes her eyes to focus.
The breath rushing out of her lips is cut short, the serenity that had been so prominent in the atmosphere suddenly disappears and her chest tightens as the first wave of pain hits her like a sledgehammer.
Gasping now for breath, her eyes open with a start, widening against the relentless stabs of pain coursing through her system. But the field of daisies doesn't greet her eyes, doesn't stretch out before her—there is no sweet summer sun, no pretty scenery. The hard ground is pressing against her back, and she realizes that she is no longer standing but sprawled across a dirt floor.
There is only a steely gray sky looming behind the concerned face of John Sheppard, a few dead branches breaking the otherwise monotonous background. Somewhere someone is yelling above the whistling wind, but what is being said escapes her.
John…she realizes belatedly, dragging her eyes away from the dark clouds, focusing on his face, focusing on the strange expression that has twisted his normally handsome features into anger and poorly disguised fear.
"You're safe. I've got you, Elizabeth," He says, the worry on his face mirrored in his tone. "You're going to be all right. Ronon and Teyla are hunting down the bastard who shot you, and McKay's gone to get Beckett—he'll be back any second now. Just hang on for a little bit more. Please, just a little longer. That's all he needs."
Somehow, in the recesses of her mind that the pain has not yet reached, she manages to come to the conclusion that she has returned from somewhere, returned for one last thing. One last thing she needs to do before she can let go and ease herself back into the green grass and flowers of the other place.
It is not a realization that she fully understands, but it is surprisingly easy to accept. Although optimism is one of her many traits, she knows when hope is no longer a reasonable option. And hope has long since left this moment in time, yet somehow it doesn't hurt as much as she would have believed. Instead there is a peace settling inside of her as she accepts what she must do, what she wants to get done before she departs one last time.
Despite the pain, she manages to lift an arm, reaching out and tracing the edge of his cheek. Between laboured breaths, she shakes her head and murmurs, "John…please…"
He gathers her close then, gently lifting her into his arms, settling her against his chest, the fight in his eyes simmering down. It appears her unspoken plea has been heard and understood, though she can see the conflicting emotions play out across his dirt-streaked face as he decides what he will do.
Finally after a moment of silence, he speaks forcefully with a roughened voice that sounds ill-used. " 'Lizabeth, you can't go. Not now, not when we're about to accomplish so much. There's a city waiting for you, people waiting to hear your orders and follow your lead. They need you there, to give your infamous speeches, to keep them in line, to motivate them to move on."
The pain has begun to fade a little, a strange numbness settling the fires that had been burning her skin. She allows a small, crooked smile to grace her features as her hand settles against his cheek, molding itself to the contours of his face. "You're…going to be…a…great leader, John."
His grip around her body tightens, convulsing as his forehead furrows and his eyes begin to acquire an over-bright sheen. "No, not me, Liz. You. You're our leader. You've always been the leader. I can't be a leader, I just can't." A hoarse, bitter laugh escapes. "I need someone to order me around, to give my ass a kick when I do something stupid. Don't you get it? I need you, Liz. I need you there to make sure I don't do too many dumb things, to tell me when I'm being a jerk. To keep me on the straight and narrow."
His voice softens a little as he searches her eyes—for what, she doesn't quite know. "I can't rule the city without you by my side. It won't be the same."
"Great…faith…in you," She murmurs, her voice breaking a little with her efforts as she traces the lines at the edge of his eye. "So much faith. City…will do just…fine. Only wish…I…could see it."
"But you can see it—just hang on for a few more minutes, and you can see it all. Please," He begs, the wetness in his eyes brimming around the corners, "Please, don't leave me. I need you, Elizabeth. Not just for leadership guidance, but for someone to talk too, to hear me out. I need the late night coffee discussions, the support you've never stopped giving me. I need you on the balcony again, need to hear you laugh at my stupid jokes. I need to know I have someone to come home to every time I step through that damn gate."
He shakes his head, holding her closer to his chest, his head bowed towards hers. "I need it all, Liz, and I can't have it unless you stay alive."
It is funny how surreal things have become to her, how at peace she is with this situation despite the wrench of her heart as she hears words she has always longed to hear fall from John's lips. Maybe when she is back amongst the flowers, the reality of his words will hit and she will be able to mourn what she has lost. But right now, she can only smile softly into his anguished face, making sure to remember its every detail.
"You will have…everyone…helping…you with…the city. Our city. You'll do…wonderful…things, John. I believe in you…so much. More…than I can…tell you." She gasps another breath of air into her deprived system. There are only a few words left that she needs to say, so she gathers up the strength to finally let them free. "But I need…to tell you…that…I've…loved you. Love you…still."
Her palm presses into his cheek. "Love…you always…John. No matter…where I am.."
The tears are beginning to fall freely along his cheeks, creating clean trails through the mud caked onto his skin. He seems to be at a loss for words, and she takes the moment to memorize every detail of his face while she still can.
She memorizes the feel of his skin below her palm, the angle of his nose, the exact colour of his eyes. She memorizes the unruly hair that seems to defy all laws of gravity, the protruding ears, the shape of his lips—lips that she regrets she didn't get a chance to really kiss.
She makes sure her picture of him is clear before letting her eyelids begin to drift downward, makes sure that it is securely etched into her memory as her last few breaths are taken in and given away.
His voice is the last thing she hears, a rough, suddenly cracking baritone that would once send shivers down her spine and now—in a fitting twist of fate—heralds her departure.
"I love you too, Liz. I just wish I could've had the guts to tell you sooner." She feels his hold tighten one last time, bringing her forehead to rest against his chest. His chin rests on top of her hair, and she feels his acceptance of her fate in the weight of his tone. "Just…just promise me you're going somewhere safe, somewhere you can rest until I get the chance to meet you there."
Her voice is but a whisper, and she will not be sure if he hears her for a long while, but she manages a few words before the darkness of her eyelids melts away into a familiar field of daisies and green grasses warmed by an ever-present summer sun.
"There are daisies, John, everywhere."
Those words have barely left her lips before she is once more amongst the flowers—the pain and the feel of John's arms having faded away into a time she is no longer apart of. The blood, too, has disappeared from her clothing, and she comes to the final understanding that she has left all of that behind.
With a sigh, she does what she has wanted to do all along. Settling amongst the green grass and white petals, the woman who was once a great leader leans back into the soft ground and turns her face up towards the blue sky and warm rays. Her reign of Atlantis may have come to an end, but she is only just beginning a new mission—a vigil of sorts to wait out the arrival of friends and loved ones to this picturesque setting.
And somewhere, far away from where her spirit rests, there is a simple stone slab, standing upright in the field of soft green grass, planted on the last planet she had called home. Around this slab, the familiar white petals and yellow centers of an old Earth flower hide letters of a name that no one can soon forget. Just below the name and hidden by the daisies, a small epitaph has been engraved, commissioned by a city—and in particular, a man—who loved her very much.
A leader, a friend, and a formidable foe,
May she find peace where flowers grow.
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