In which we find out why the hell Ronon's in this situation in the first place.
ALONE IN THE DARK
Three days and four nights. Four nights and three days.
However you looked at it, it was too damn long.
Ronon woke up in the middle of the first night in a cell. His body ached, from the cold and from bruises old and new. At first he worried that he had gone blind, but he quickly realised that it was just dark.
The cell was tiny, not wide enough for him to lie down in without curling into a ball. If he leaned into the corner of the cell and sat down, there was enough room to stretch his legs out diagonally across the floor… barely. The stone was rough, and cold, and he was hungry.
"Hey!" Ronon yelled, pressing his face to the iron bars. "Hey! Hello? Is anyone there?"
Nobody answered. Nobody came. Ronon stood by the door, listening, for hours.
Three days and three nights later, he hadn't seen a living soul. Ronon felt feverish, thirsty. He knew he was dehydrated, and he knew he should feel hungry, but the thought of food made his stomach roll. He shivered and burned, slumped against the rock, in total silence.
Except it wasn't total silence. The cell he was in had moods, he decided, just like a person. At night it creaked and groaned infinitesimally; in the day it expanded in the sunlight, sighing as it did so, as if in relief.
The cell looked out onto a stone passage. There were no windows, in the cell or in the passage, but light filtered down the passage from some far-off point. It allowed Ronon to tell the days from the nights, and to see that the rock forming the building was an insulting shade of pink, some type of sandstone.
Really, wasn't there a law that said jails had to be made of dark, gloomy, threatening rock? A pink jail was just ridiculous.
On the fourth day, Sheppard came to rescue him.
"Hey buddy."
Ronon's head shot up. Sheppard was standing outside the cell, looking in.
"Sheppard?" Ronon croaked. His body ached from lack of water.
"That's me. You know, you've got a real habit of getting in trouble," Sheppard announced, pacing back and forth in front of him. "First Keturah and his village, they put you in a cage… now this?"
"You gotta let me out," Ronon whispered. At least, he thought he did.
"I don't know, buddy. I mean, people aren't just putting you in a cage for no reason, right? Maybe they've got the right idea. You've caused enough trouble for Atlantis over the years… I'm thinking I'll just leave you here."
"I saved you," Ronon protested weakly. "I'm only here because…" He paused. Why was he here? His memories were falling out of place, blurring and mixing with the nightmares of his Runner days.
"You saved me," Sheppard agreed. "That moron with the noose was a step away from taking me out. Teyla's face is pretty red right now, I can tell you. She never even realised her buddies were slavers."
"I pushed you aside," Ronon mumbled.
"And I got through the gate and you didn't. You know, I do owe you." Sheppard eyed Ronon thoughtfully.
"Get me out."
"Nah."
"But…"
"I'm the only one here, Ronon. Who're they going to believe when I tell them I never found you?"
"Son of a bitch!" Ronon growled, scrambling to his feet. "I'll kill you!"
"Yeah, that's the way to make friends," Sheppard snorted. "Threaten them. I'll see you later, buddy. Or not." His body turned pink as he spoke, gained a texture of rough rock, and before Ronon's eyes, melted backwards to form the wall.
Ronon sank back to the floor, holding in sobs with a mighty effort.
"You don't look good."
"Go away," Ronon muttered. "Go away."
"…That's it? That's all you've got to say?"
"You're not… you aren't here. Go away."
"Oh." This in a tone of realisation. "I'm here. Open your eyes."
"No."
"Stubborn insa. I've got water."
"You don't." Ronon refused to open his eyes. This was a hallucination, just like Sheppard had been. He wouldn't open his eyes.
There was the sound of a single footstep, then, like a slap in the face, a splash of water landed on him. Ronon sat bolt upright, staring out of the cell.
Kisri stood there, holding a small cup in one hand and a water-skin in the other. It was mid-afternoon, and the rosy light in the corridor made her look like she had been carved out of the same pink sandstone that held Ronon.
"Here," Kisri said, pouring water into the cup. "Sip it slowly."
Ronon reached out with shaking hands and accepted the cup through the bars, sipping it slowly as she directed. It was hard: the water felt like the elixir of life as it flowed down his throat.
"You're real," he decided, staring at her.
"I am."
"What are you doing here?" Ronon demanded angrily. "Come to gloat?"
"A little bit," Kisri said, supremely unconcerned. "Do you want more water or not?"
Ronon glowered at her for a moment, then held the cup out reluctantly. Kisri smirked and filled it again. "You look terrible. Have you been making new friends?"
"Where am I?" Ronon asked.
"The Ghost Market."
"The slave market," Ronon murmured, sipping the water. "Why are you here?"
"That's not your concern. You should be more worried about yourself."
"I'll escape. When they sell me, I'll escape."
"They aren't going to sell you." Kisri leaned against the wall and watched him. Feeling at a disadvantage, Ronon shakily pulled himself to his feet. "I heard about your escape attempts. You killed five people and started a riot."
"I must have missed the riot."
Kisri raised an eyebrow at his disappointed tone. "They aren't going to sell you. They're going to execute you as an example to the other slaves."
This was bad. Very, very bad. Ronon stared at her, unable to think of anything to say. "Sheppard," he began, then stopped. Kisri was shaking her head.
"Colonel Sheppard won't find you. Even if he was looking, you'll be killed tomorrow morning. You're out of time, Ronon Dex."
