Not Your Typical Hero
(Sheppard's façade of bravery is cracking during a long imprisonment. A one-chapter story exploring a theme that's always interested me. Rated K+ for imagery and a swear word).
He couldn't do it anymore, couldn't try anymore. Forget the hero crap, the noble suffering, the holding on. "Give up, John", he thought. "Just let yourself sink into blackness." His weight would defeat the persistence of buoyancy on a slow descent to the bottom of the sea, succumbing to ennui. The light from the sky above that infiltrated the watery depths would fade away as he, too, so quietly, so absolutely, god-damn peacefully, blinked out of existence.
The ocean was a metaphor, of course. And even if it was his reality, he might have welcomed imminent drowning in exchange for the slow death which tortured him now. Pain, fever and hallucinations. Stench and filth. Misery and despair. Hey, get out a thesaurus and pick a fistful of horrible nouns and adjectives. All accompanied by a numbing fear of the next time the guards came. Judging by the length of his hair and beard, five or six weeks had passed since his capture. (His watch had been smashed long ago.) He was being held in a small cell in a subterranean prison. Paced out by his bare feet a million times, it was roughly 9 x 6, with a ceiling slightly taller than he was; he could brush it with his knuckles. A thin mattress provided no relief for his aching, battered body. He had two blankets, one bucket, and one rapidly deteriorating pair of pants. They had confiscated his outer shirt; his black T-shirt had been sacrificed for bandages. Ventilation and faint light came from a small hatch in the door through which they dropped infrequent food and water and checked that he hadn't somehow escaped. Sounds from the corridor were muffled by the wooden door reinforced with iron bands and by thick stone walls that were always cold even though he knew they shouldn't be that way, he knew they were far underground and that there should be some ambient warmth from the surrounding earth. Perhaps the cold was a psychic phenomenon, emanating from his desperate emotions instead of a geologic quirk.
Sheppard was a prisoner of a people called the Kraal, a pawn in their war with another race called the Denari. The Denarians had recently approached Atlantis about an alliance against the Wraith, but it was clear they wanted protection from the Kraal as well. Their fight against the Kraal seemed intractable, but a pact with Atlantis could finally tip the scales in the Denarian's favor. Actual Lantean force might never even be needed; the intimidation factor alone could keep their enemy in line. But Sheppard knew a slippery slope when he saw one and wanted little to do with the Denari beyond fighting Wraith. The Kraal were not Atlantis's problem. Elizabeth had agreed with him: they could not afford such an entanglement, and she endeavored during negotiations to steer clear of the issue.
But then the Kraal had attacked the Denarian capitol city while Sheppard and his team happened to be there. Literally caught in the middle, the Lanteans had fought alongside the Denari and later Atlantis had provided medical aid. (Not helping would have been morally and ethically wrong.) But there was a price. The Denari had captured several Kraal and would soon execute them for war crimes. In retaliation, the Kraal had kidnapped Sheppard. Their strategy was clear – and brilliant, John conceded. The Kraal would trade him for their imprisoned men. Atlantis had sided with their enemy – no matter how accidentally or unwillingly. Sheppard, as the Lantean military leader, was therefore fair, and very valuable, game. If the Denarians, despite their budding friendship with Atlantis, were reluctant to make the trade, Elizabeth – and Stargate Command if necessary – would most certainly pressure them into it. The Denarians would not risk antagonizing Atlantis.
But things fell apart when the Denari emphatically did refuse the deal. Justice was their right and the Kraal would be punished – even at the tragic expense of others.
SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA
Sometimes, just for a moment, John forgot why he was imprisoned; his subconscious labored to protect him, redirected his thoughts to a place in his mind where he simply existed. Whether he knew it or not, those small respites were literally keeping him alive. He hadn't given up on his friends. They would rescue him, either through diplomacy or blunt force. But it had to be soon: fear, despair, and sickness were slowly turning hope into a cruel illusion.
John remembered watching, as a kid, a TV spy show where a character, an ordinary guy, asked the seemingly unflappable hero if he was ever afraid in his line of work. This guy was surprised when the hero answered that, yes, he was always afraid. If he ever stopped being scared, then they were really in trouble. John knew that fear kept you from racing around the corner smack into the unknown. But it also pushed you, no matter how slowly, towards that same destination, somehow inspiring you to overcome the very thing that kept you locked in place.
Fiction seldom let on, though, how fear and pain could grind a person down, that bravery was empowering but not impervious, that stoicism was often over-rated, and that heroes were actually human.
As the blows made him gasp in surprise and pain, as the shackles which suspended him gouged deeper into his ulcerated wrists, as blood and dirt formed a sickening paste under the boots of his jailors, John waited. Sooner or later, the sound of Ronon's gun would be echoing through the hallways of his personal hell…wouldn't it?
The End.
(Epilogue-Some of you may want me to bring the Kraal/Denari plot line to some sort of conclusion, but that's not the purpose of my story. I wanted to explore how the hero in fiction, using the terrific character of John Sheppard, behaves when it's just him, alone and desperate with his thoughts and suffering, and how the idealized image of a hero too often drives a story towards a predictable end.)