Death be not proud
It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be sitting on the edge of her desk, grinning insufferably as he distracted her.
Though some have called thee mighty and dreadful
He was supposed to be alive.
For, thou art not so,
It was an accident. A simple, stupid accident that should never have happened.
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Rodney still didn't know what had happened. Until he figured it out, he refused to be part of the vigil in the infirmary. It was his self-imposed punishment.
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
Not that there was anything Rodney could have done. No one could do anything anymore.
From rest and sleep,
It was simply a matter of time.
Which but thy pictures be,
John had been here for hours. Long, lonely hours in which he refused to wake up, to prove that he was still with them.
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
She wanted to hug him, hit him, kiss him – do anything that might make him respond.
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
She didn't know what to do anymore. John was the heart and soul of Atlantis. Without him…it would never be the same.
Rest of their bones, and souls delivery.
Rodney was here now. He was standing silently between Teyla and Ronon. Strength radiated from their features, filling the room with unspoken hope.
Thou art slave to Fate,
They had been scheduled for a mission that day.
Chance,
The device Rodney had found, though, intrigued John enough that he pushed it back.
kings,
Elizabeth had been just as curious.
and desperate men,
Carson had started running the moment he felt the blast wave.
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
She couldn't remember how many times she had sat here, waiting. Sometimes for Rodney, other times for Teyla or Ronon.
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
Most of the time, though, she was waiting for John.
And better then thy stroke.
He had given more than any of them for this city.
Why swell'st thou then?
"If he doesn't wake up soon, there won't be much I can do."
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
"John," she whispered. "I need you to wake up now."
And death shall be no more;
He couldn't leave her.
Death, thou shalt die.
"Liz'beth." So faint, she barely understood. "I'm not…going anywhere."
o0o
AN: Wow, so that turned out to be more depressing than I was planning. I apologize for the Shweir, it was just begging to be written. Anyway, the poem is Death Be Not Proud by John Donne. It's a bit of a departure for me, but I hope you enjoyed it!