Quiesco
Sarie Venea
A/N-This is very sad, and purposely vague. I hope you like it.
He knew they would be furious, frantic, worried. He didn't care.
It was just before morning. Even though there were no windows in the infirmary, he knew what time it was; his body always could tell. Eyes cracked open wearily, blue meeting hazel. Wrinkles premature lined the pale face. His friend was old before his time, aged by a monster, robbed of life. His once-strong body lay feeble and shaky in the bed, his bones fragile and muscles wasted. The young man gently cradled the weakened hand in his own, interlacing long fingers with gnarled, twisted ones.
Breath came hard, rasping, rough. He leaned close, the quiet words brushing his ear.
"Take…me…t'see…my city."
He turned his head, eyes inches apart, reading the fading life still within.
"Die…my city."
The young man nodded slowly, a heavy pause speaking loudly. His heart went numb, the pain too great for it to feel. The city was losing its soul today. He rested his forehead warm against his best friend's, an alien greeting conveying more than any Earth language could.
"Let's go see your city."
They would be angry. He didn't care.
He stood, his body nimble and powerful. He rounded the bed and pressed the button in the corner of the monitor, the lines on the screen going black. He followed the wires with his fingers, carefully disconnecting each one from the old man's body. A band-aid covered the tiny spot of blood that seeped from the back of his hand as he slipped the small needle from the papery skin. He tucked the blankets around his friend's form, slipping his arms underneath the frail body and gently, gently lifting his best friend into his arms.
Wispy hair, once mussed as hands ran through it in concentration, tickled the young man's ear, the faint breaths whispering against his neck. His friend's head had fallen limply onto his shoulder; both arms were folded across his stomach, one hand clenching the jacket front weakly.
"C'son…piss'd."
He chuckled, the reverberations felt in the fragile ribcage that surrounded a slowing heart.
"Yeah, they'll be pissed at us."
He slipped unnoticed from the infirmary, the exhausted doctor asleep on his desk and the nurse in her chair. Days of desperately trying to find a cure for the oldest sickness known to man would finally be over, relieved by the silent death of old age. Rodney and John were like shadows as they crossed the city together, one in the arms of the other.
The highest tower boasted the highest balcony, the best view overlooking the city of the Ancients. Every tier glittered when the sun struck the glass and metal, and every color reflected from the water. But now it was dark, the stars winking out one by one, purple edging the horizon. The young man barely felt the extra weight of the man he held as he bent, settling the thinned body in a cocoon on the bench an Earthling had placed there long ago. He rearranged the blankets against the early chill, sitting close, pressing his own warmth to his friend. He didn't hesitate before wrapping both arms around the old man, tightening his hold to bring him in against his shoulder. Again his neck was too weak to lift his head and he relaxed into the young man's strength, relishing the comfort and emotion that poured from one into the other.
"The sun is rising." He watched as the first ray of yellow gold streaked up the sky's edge. Weary eyes slid open again, gazing at the first rays of the last sunlight to ever warm his face. The unlined cheek slowly descended onto the dry hair, sitting there, watching in silence that didn't need words as the city began to sparkle.
He could feel each breath rattling, laboring, aching because of the pain that was spreading in the ancient limbs. Death was hovering, pacing on the balcony, waiting for the sun to rise so he could have his way with the pair on the bench. The young man tightened his hold, a last cry in his chest screaming to keep that apparition away from this precious soul, to keep him safe and save him once more.
The old man could feel it, stalking him, hunting like the Wraith that he had fought so hard for so long. He was dying, unspectacular and quiet, easing out of this life in the silent sunrise, held in his best friend's arms. The young man carried blame across his shoulders. Guilt and anger, failure and regrets. He would never release the burden he'd chosen to carry. Rescue didn't come in time for everyone.
He shuddered, cold seeping like water. It came from inside, his body shutting down piece by piece. Sunlight shot over the railing, striking the windows behind them and shattering into colors. It was warm, breaking the city into thousands of mirrors, all reflecting the dark waves and the purple sky. Clouds were spun gold, the undersides lit.
Years from now the young man will be old and he will watch this moment behind his eyes every night. Gasping breaths cut short the profound things one says to the closest soul to one's own in the final moments. Best friend is a term used in kindergarten to describe the kid who traded his turkey sandwich for your meatloaf. Here, millions of miles from that classroom, best friend is translated as brother, the one who reads everything in a look and yet gains nothing from a tirade. Lemons and vampires are faced down side by side, planets blow up and trust is rebuilt, flying cures all and the woman he wants will never be his. Emotions were too much to openly face in life, but in death all boundaries were erased. The old man would die in his arms, held safely, securely, protected to the premature end.
The sun rose gently, light scattering across the city. It was awakening below them, the people beginning to move, another day starting. Few knew what today was. Those who did were panicking, searching, angry. The pair on the balcony didn't care.
The old man blinked. Darkness was edging the brilliant colors out, his sight vanishing as his life slipped away. He closed them, another part of his body now useless. He couldn't feel the tears that began their way down the wrinkles of his cheeks, but the young man felt them, hot on his hand. He stroked the feather-light skin, drawing his friend's head in under his chin. The old man buried his face in the familiar jacket, inhaling the scent for the last time. Sobs came in a dry, heaving rattle that spoke of the bitter unfairness and cruelty of this quiet event.
"Shh. Don't cry." He didn't want to remember these tears as the last moments they shared. But to ask him to not weep was a mockery of his pain. For the young man cried as well. The sun shone, bright and hot, climbing in the sky of another day.
"T'll…'Liz…"
"I'll tell her."
"Th'…team…R'n'n, T'la…"
"I promise."
"C'son…N't …his…faul'…"
"He'll know."
He sucked in air, realizing too late that it was a deep, wrenching sob. The old man lifted one arm, circling his neck and holding with everything he had left. Holding on to the life, the youth that was torn from him.
The last breath was the young man's name, a whisper that carried both an apology and a hope, that though his sacrifice was unforgivable, it would not be forgotten as well. The young man felt the heartbeat under his hand stop, the eyes close forever and the soul leave behind the weight of death. He cried out once, another horrible sob as he clung to the body, crushing it to his chest.
They found them, the young man's eyes dry, watching the waves reflect the city back on itself. Elizabeth turned toward the balcony, her features fighting to keep the tears at bay. Teyla rested her hand on the old man's head, her eyes glassy. She bowed her head, softly murmuring ancient words of prayer. Ronon's mask slipped down, revealing a deep sorrow he'd not let show before. Carson felt his anger drain, leaving a bitter failure and hollow pain in its wake.
Waves crashed on the piers, the city sighing as she sensed the loss of one of her own. Somewhere, a Wraith smiled as he remembered the life he stole.
Few on Earth cried for the old man, his remains never recovered from the distant land in which he fell.