A Hair's Breadth of Time
by Pouncer
Too much change, too fast.
John and Rodney had once attempted to explain to Teyla the meaning of the word "gate-lag." They tripped over each other's contributions, throwing out terms like jets and melatonin and time zones. Teyla was certain half of what John said were jokes delivered in his dry, deadpan tones. The voice she would never hear again.
From her littlest days, Teyla had heard elders beseech the heavens for the Ancestors return. Halling was only the latest of a long string of faithful Council members who believed that piety would solve problems as diverse as recurring Wraith attacks, poor harvests, and dishonest trade partners.
Many times, Teyla had witnessed her father shake his head and sigh.
"Teyla-bo," he had told her, "if we wait for the Ancestors, our people will starve amidst ripe grain for want of a sickle thrust into their hands."
She had nodded up at him, wide-eyed at the honor of receiving his confidence.
"Grasp your destiny, and mold the future to your will."
She had attempted to do so, had viewed the nature of the strangers from Earth, judged their intent and capabilities and honor, and aligned herself with their struggle. For was it not hers as well? Find a way to defeat the Wraith and free the galaxy from their tyranny? Major Sheppard and Doctor Weir might not have known the Wraith, the constant strain of raids and loss of loved ones, the cyclical culling of entire civilizations, the destruction of technology deemed too advanced, but their optimism had made Teyla believe, for a time, that a way could be found.
Those from Earth were confident, perhaps rashly so, but Teyla had lived with loss for so long that her soul cried out for action. And her father's words whispered into her ears: grasp your destiny. Mold the future to your will.
The City of the Ancestors welcomed the new-comers, treated Major Sheppard as the cosseted son, trying to fulfill his every wish, and extended its formidable powers to the protection of its new inhabitants.
Until its old masters returned.
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The Athosian encampment looked raw. Vegetation had been hacked back to provide space for their tents, and Teyla fancied the butchered trees and shrubbery were external proof of her pain at yet another displacement.
Expelled from Atlantis, lifted from the mainland where her people had grown tentative roots, even though the loss of Athos would always linger as a dull ache. Each new sunrise or sunset at the wrong time, each storm from the wrong direction -- the very stars shining down at night were not right.
No matter how short the time Teyla dwelled there, Atlantis had become home. Yet the loss of it was as nothing compared to the people who were missing.
Teyla kept catching herself thinking of what she would tell Elizabeth that afternoon at tea, of some mishap she would recount to make Rodney laugh, of some antic perpetuated by Jinto and friends that John would have grinned over. Teyla would never see them again, and each time she was reminded, her breath caught and her heart clenched. For all her brave words to John about paths crossing again, she could see no way that it would come to be. Her understanding of Earth's enemies and interests, the attitude of the Ancestors when they transported the Athosians – too much was wrong with the universe, and Teyla did not put stock in the type of hope that would let her wishes come true.
She ate dinner -- that Drella had cooked -- each night with Ronon, fiercely grateful that he was close. She feared the agrarian ways the Athosians had adopted would chafe after long, and she would lose him too. The hunger to roam had lingered in Ronon's blood, even with regular missions off Atlantis. The need to increase trade ties in the absence of Earth supplies would not sate his need for excitement.
It did not sate Teyla's, after all.
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Halling approached Teyla as she sorted provisions. She was not allowed near the cooking fires for the sake of all their stomachs, but Drella was not shy in handing out assignments that Teyla could not ruin.
"We were thinking of holding the sowing ceremony in three days," Halling said. "To coincide with the full moon."
Her hands stilled. Prayers to the Ancestors – Teyla could not imagine saying the words and meaning them.
"Ah," she said, trying to marshal her thoughts.
Halling must have read something in her face, because he smiled and said, "We can discuss it later," before withdrawing to other duties. He had been treating her with a delicacy she remembered from the days after her father died.
Teyla shifted sacks of herbs and tried very hard not to let bitterness overwhelm her.
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She confessed her struggle to Ronon that night after dinner as they walked the borders of the camp.
"They returned and we were exiled again. Halling has always been devout, and I know many of my people have found comfort in their faith."
Teyla shook her head. "But what I have witnessed – the consequences of their actions when they abandoned us to the Wraith so long ago, their sundering with the Asurans, their arrogance in assuming we would be grateful--" Her voice had risen as she spoke and finally broke altogether. Fury surged through her veins and for one moment Teyla wished to have the smug face of Helia, the captain of the Ancestors' ship Trea, before her, wished the release violence would have brought, to see skin redden and blond curls whip around with the force of a blow.
Ronon placed his hand atop the fist Teyla had formed unknowingly. "They need to believe," he said. "It's all they have left."
And she was bereft of even that comfort.
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Three days later Teyla stood with bare feet in freshly plowed dirt and sang the Ancestor's praises, asking for their beneficence to ensure a good harvest.
Hard labor had rid the field of roots, had tilled clods to a fine texture. The soil was dark and rich, moist with spring rains. It felt cool beneath the soles of her feet, and she dug her toes deeper, since she could not clench her hands where anyone could see.
She watched the children spread seed and trample it down into the ground as their parents clapped their hands in the traditional rhythm.
After, she washed her feet in the brook, and went to practice with her bantos rods.
She needed the routine, the intricacy of forming patterns correctly, the blankness brought by seeking physical perfection.
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Loud cries heralded trouble, and Wex rushed into the center of camp, so winded that he could barely force words out.
"Jinto's hurt. We were climbing the ridge," and there he glanced at his father, Plinthin, with more than a little guilt – the ridge was forbidden to all but the most skilled climbers. "Jinto fell."
Halling's mouth was agape, and Teyla let her hand rest on his shoulder for an instant before she organized the rescue.
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Carried back to his father's tent by Ronon, Jinto lay pale and wan amid layered blankets and pillows as Plinthin tended to his injuries. A gash on his temple, a broken arm, mild scrapes and bruises, but it could have been worse. So much worse. The break was in his left arm, not his dominant right, so any impairment from mis-healing would be lessened.
Teyla wished for Carson's soothing presence, his X-ray machine, his MRI to check for brain swelling, his skilled hands, his well-equipped, antiseptic infirmary where wounds were mended as if by magic.
The jewel tones of the bedding emphasized Jinto's pallor as his father clutched at his good hand. The air was scented with the spices Halling favored to ward off pests.
"Shall I brew tea for the pain?" Teyla asked, and received a nod in reply from Plinthin.
Ronon turned with her as she left the tent, his large presence a comforting bulwark at her back.
The tea supplies were cached inside Teyla's tent, and she lit the brazier to begin heating water. Ronon poked at the cups until she batted his hands aside.
"Be good if Beckett were here," Ronon said.
"Yes." Teyla sifted leaves into the teapot. "When Charin died, before she died, he offered to perform a procedure on her that would have extended her days."
Ronon nodded.
Flames danced around the bottom of the kettle, but steam had yet to appear.
"Charin did not wish this aid, and I tried to explain to Carson that it was not our way." Teyla gathered a tray, and began to align cups in razor-straight lines. It was important that they be well-organized, to demonstrate her care for Jinto. "He did not understand, and I was so certain that our way was better –"
"It's different when it's a kid," Ronon said. "Or an injury."
Teyla nodded, and poured steaming water over the tea leaves, stirring to wet them thoroughly.
The tea had to steep until it mirrored the color of the blesash blossom.
"There were so many wonders in Atlantis," she said, almost dreamy with the memories.
"I miss the showers," Ronon offered, and Teyla had to laugh.
"As do I."
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Day bled into day, the sun rising and setting at the wrong time and place. Jinto sulked as he was held close to camp, his father fretting over his recovery.
"He has established a pattern," Halling sighed to Teyla one morning as they watched Wex attempt to amuse Jinto with pantomime games. "We move, and he gets hurt."
Teyla smiled at the thought of Jinto's disappearance, their first days in Atlantis. It seemed so long ago. "But he is healing well?" Teyla asked.
"As well as can be expected."
Teyla sipped the last of her tea and stood to collect her belongings. "We go out on the hunt," she told Halling. "Fair day."
"May the blessing of the Ancestors be upon you," Halling said.
Teyla left without replying.
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The moon waxed full, a giant violet disk on the horizon every night, and the fields sprouted a thin scrim of green above dark loam. If only time could be sped onward, and all their efforts bore such promising fruit.
"Having to abandon the crops on Atlantis put us in jeopardy," Halling said. "All that seed wasted."
"We shall have to make alternate arrangements until the harvest," Plinthin said, and the rest of the Council nodded their accord.
"What do we have in surplus?" Teyla asked. She would need to know what they could offer in trade, before she could choose the best destination. Bargaining was a delicate affair, based on need and perception and future promises balanced against current reward – a whiff of desperation would assure the Athosians came out the worse for the attempt, but if she was wily enough, Teyla could both satisfy her trading partners and guarantee a jubilant return home.
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Ronon came with her to Wentvert. Halling had offered his presence as well, but Teyla had smiled with as much grace as she could muster and told him she would be fine with her sole remaining teammate.
A nexus where many peoples came together for the marketplace, Wentvert was in the midst of its rainy season. Teyla and Ronon walked through the stargate into a deluge, and Teyla wished for a hood on her coat.
She had brought samples of Athosian textiles, and set off for the main trading hall to see who was offering grain, and who needed fabrics.
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Ronon grinned at the hall sentries, and they looked at him askance, perhaps intimidated by his sheer bulk. The serving girls were more appreciative, and Teyla reminded Ronon not to drink too much ale while she browsed among the stalls. His eyes followed the hips of his server, and Teyla sighed, wondering if she would find him when she returned.
She set off, navigating the crowd and trying not to appear too green. Confidence would serve her purpose better, this day.
Flags decorated the front of most of trading stalls, adorned with each world's gate address. Or what they claimed were their points of origin – Teyla knew of more than one group that would not reveal their homes so freely.
She had been more trusting, once, before the secret of the Genii was found burrowed underground.
The seasons of the worlds of Pegasus marched to different rhythms – where one world dealt in spring berries, another displayed root vegetables that were sweetened by autumn frosts, and a third offered the fruits of high summer. At one time, Teyla had known the calendars of dozens of worlds, and how they corresponded to Athos. She had gotten out of the habit on Atlantis, with its halcyon days and gentle temperature changes.
Now she must reacquire her knowledge.
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Negotiating session well begun, Teyla exited the Nuf stall pleased. They had traded in the past, many years distant, and still remembered her fondly, so she was not taking a chance on complete unknowns. Establishing trust was a delicate process, one of small promises made and kept until each side was comfortable with the honor of their partner.
She had seen many new faces among the hall, and noted those who were absent. The Wraith had ravaged numerous worlds, and the gossip exchanged was of their unprecedented attacks these three years gone. Lately, they had been quieter, and Teyla thought of Carson's retrovirus and Michael's anguish, evaluating the sick twist of her stomach. Perhaps their mistakes hadn't all been for naught.
Scanning the crowd, the low hum of many voices in conversation easing her nerves, Teyla's eyes caught on a familiar profile. Bright curls tumbled to her shoulders, and Teyla slid behind a pillar to confirm her recognition from cover. The woman turned, and there had been no mistake – Sora.
A fine trembling suffused Teyla's hands, and her breathing accelerated. The scent of mold underlay the press of bodies, and all of a sudden the drumming of rain on the metal roof was loud in Teyla's ears.
They had been friends as children, and Teyla ever regretted the acrimony with which Sora had come to regard her. She had made overtures, those long weeks when Sora was confined in Atlantis after the Genii invasion, but Sora had refused to hear her. And then Sora had been sent back to her people as part of the deal that brought Atlantis much needed nuclear warheads just before the Wraith armada arrived.
Teyla had been too busy then and since to fret about Sora, although she would admit to an occasional lingering burst of curiosity. Not that any of it mattered now. The important question was: why were the Genii here?
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Ronon sat where she had left him, although he had gathered companions. They were sharing tales, and Ronon laughed long and delighted, looking so young that Teyla checked her headlong rush so that he could have this last moment of enjoyment.
Even as her feet slowed, her brain started working again. So the Genii were visiting Wentvert. And so, Teyla-bo?, her father's voice asked. They have need of outside goods too. And their enmity would find poor sport targeted at her people, now.
The technology of the Ancients was snug with its masters in the spires of Atlantis. Those from Earth were returned to their home planet. Even Sora's desire for revenge was likely blunted by the passing of days. What did she have to fear?
Teyla reached over Ronon's shoulder and stole away his mug.
"Hey!" he protested, but she just sipped and claimed a chair for herself.
"The ale is good," she said, and smiled around the table. "Who are your friends?"
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Later, the deal completed that would keep her belly full until the harvest, Teyla and Ronon strolled through the trading hall. He was loose and warm, close against her side, and she felt happier than she had before Rodney noticed a discrepancy on his sensors and located the ship of the Ancestors.
"I saw Genii, earlier," Teyla told Ronon. "A girl I once knew."
"She try anything?" he asked.
Teyla shook her head. "I thought on it, and realized they'd have no interest in me anymore."
He tugged on her hair, and she almost squawked but held herself to a glare and plots of future mischief with his dreadlocks.
"Surprised they're not petitioning the Ancestors."
"Or invading Atlantis," she offered.
They both snickered, but Teyla was careful to mark that their path back to the stargate was free of followers.
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Not free enough, apparently, because a handful of days after, who should appear in the midst of her camp but Ladon Radim.
Teyla was intrigued by his offer, for all her wariness of the Genii. Simple routines of planting and hunting and trading were work to survive, but not to truly live. And all that had been demanded of her since they came to this new world was as nothing compared to her previous efforts against the Wraith. Yes, the Genii were duplicitous. But they did have forces and technology and the will to fight an overwhelming enemy.
She hungered for that fight.
Ronon's distrust of the Genii wouldn't let him see the advantages of an alliance, so they argued after eating Drella's stew for dinner. He was impetuous, always, and uncaring of reason, and their quarrel might have become serious had they not been interrupted.
"John!" Teyla could not help her delight at seeing him, at seeing Rodney and Elizabeth and Carson so far from where she expected them to be, even when they told her of the Replicator takeover of Atlantis.
There was not really a choice to be made; she had to go with them and do her part to retake the city.
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When she came back, afterward, it was to bring word that the Ancestors were dead. That those from Earth were returning to Atlantis. That she would join them there, once again part of Colonel Sheppard's team.
Halling was bewildered at the downfall of his venerated Ancestors, hands fluttering at his sides as he asked question after question that she did her best to answer.
The only truth was one that would destroy his faith, and Teyla did not have it in her to be that harsh.
Plinthin and other members of the Council spoke privately for a time, then told Teyla they thought it best to remain in their new home until the harvest.
"Then," Halling told her, "we shall decide what we want to do."
Drella added, "I like being able to walk through the stargate," and Teyla knew just what she meant.
"You will always be welcome here, Teyla Emmagan," Halling said, and she smiled at him.
"I will return often, and soon with Ronon to gather our things."
She made her way around the circle, touching her forehead to those of her friends in momentary farewell.
On the way back to the stargate, she passed Wex and Jinto, his arm free of its splint at long last, gathering berries. She almost stopped to tell them to grasp their destinies, as she had in the past and will, always.
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For a man can lose neither the past nor the future; for how can one take from him that which is not his? So remember these two points: first, that each thing is of like form from everlasting and comes round again in its cycle, and that it signifies not whether a man shall look upon the same things for a hundred years or two hundred, or for an infinity of time; second, that the longest lived and the shortest lived man, when they come to die, lose one and the same thing.
--Marcus Aurelius, Meditations. ii. 14.
-end-
Notes: My thanks to everyone who made suggestions and got me started, to Spike for her help mid-way through, and to Walter for the beta. Written for the Back to Basics: Atlantis challenge. Rustler asked for Teyla feeling tension between her roles with the Atlantis expedition and with the Athosians. Title from Marcus Aurelius, also the Meditations.
Disclaimer: Sadly, neither Teyla nor Ronon belong to me. This story written for love, not profit.
Teyla tugs on Ronon's dreadlocks asking for feedback, good or bad.