Ch. 2
Sheppard's backbone was digging into Ronon's chest. He had one arm across John's stomach and the other across his chest to keep him as straight as possible. Teyla was handling John's head, tilting it up at the chin as she angled the cup to his lips. She no longer needed to rub his throat, just her knuckles into his chest to get him to wake up.
A few drops of broth slid down John's chin. Teyla removed the cup and wiped the drops away with her coat sleeve. Two days in the caves and it had all become routine. Teyla didn't even have to ask anymore. When she poured the broth, Ronon gathered John to have him ready.
McKay was leaning against the entrance staring out. The storm had finally died down sometime during the night and if they were to reach the gate then they needed to take advantage of the good weather. McKay, however, was frowning as he stared into the uninterrupted white of outside. His eyes would sometimes flick to and from Ronon's direction. More accurately Sheppard's direction.
"The sooner we move out," Ronon said, "the farther we get, the sooner we can find the next shelter."
John stirred a little but remained quiet. Teyla was already packing away the food they hadn't eaten. When she finished, she slung a pack over her shoulder, tossing the other pack and water skin to Rodney, who caught it. The science-man's reflexes had been sharp since they found him. He'd yet to fumble, or even trip over hidden roots.
Teyla moved to John and wrapped the blanket tight around him. Ronon slung a pack onto his shoulder, then gathered John into his arms and stood. Teyla adjusted the blanket again around John's head until only his face could be seen. His eyes were open to slits, unfocused and lethargic. He wasn't difficult to carry and that bothered Ronon. Training in the arena, and the fights, had kept him strong. But even if he'd been weak, Sheppard still wouldn't have felt a burden.
It bothered Ronon even more that John had yet to complain about being carried around like a child.
"We should have brought another blanket," McKay said. "He's not going to be warm enough in that. Is he warm enough? He needs another blanket." He took a deep breath and let it out sharply. Rodney was worried. They all were, but Rodney was wearing his worry like clothes. He also flinched away if Ronon so much as formed a fist just to pop his knuckles. And yet Rodney had been hovering like a shadow next to Ronon since leaving the citadel, practically sacrificing his own personal space when they'd weave through the crowded city streets. He was frightened and wary, protective but wanting more to be protected, and doing poorly at trying to hide it.
"He'll be warm," Ronon promised. If he had to, he would walk backwards to keep the wind off Sheppard.
When they were bundled up, geared up, and the fire was kicked and stomped out of existence, they left the warmth of the cave. The air outside was still, but sharp, freezing the membrane within the nose. Teyla led the way through ankle deep snow that was fine and powdery, easy to walk through. It was piled on the tree branches and against the tree trunks in drifts. Their breaths streamed and coiled into thick clouds that curled and twisted before dissolving.
McKay stumbled for the first time in days. "How the hell are was supposed to find the road under all this?"
"Because it will be the only clearing that goes on for miles," Teyla answered wisely.
Ronon moved slower and more cautiously than the others. If he tripped, snow would get on John's blankets, making it wet and making Sheppard cold.
They stumbled onto the road, almost passing it when McKay realized they were in a clearing stretching on too straight to be natural.
"Which way again?" Rodney asked.
Ronon led the way this time. Discerning direction had been just as important a matter of survival as eating and drinking. During his running days, the moment he stepped onto a planet, he'd set out to establish which way was north, south, east, and west. The position of the suns, moss on trees, on rocks, the migration of certain birds; if none of it came through, he'd follow animal herds, find a river and literally go with the flow. If there was no immediate direction to be had through a compass or which side of a tree moss grew on, then he'd make up his own direction.
The most important direction was the one that took him away from the wraith. In this case the city. Ronon would always know which way they needed to go.
"Good gosh," Rodney panted. "We have five more days to trudge through this crap? This snow is going to turn it into ten days. Maybe even a month."
"It is not that bad, Rodney," Teyla said. "The snow is loose and easy to walk through. It will not be a hindrance."
"Say that again after your toes fall off from frost bite. Or when our food runs out."
"Panicking this early isn't going to make a difference," Ronon said. "Focus on getting back to the 'gate. We'll worry about everything else when it's time to worry."
"Frostbite is something to worry about now."
"Not if it keeps you talking for everyone to hear."
McKay tossed his arms up. "What everyone? Where? We're out in the freakin' middle of nowhere trudging through almost two feet of snow. Who the hell would be insane enough to be out here in this damn tundra?"
Ronon would have smiled. He'd actually missed the complaining. Problem was, it was taking place in hostile territory. "Us, for one," Ronon replied. "People desperate as us. And people who pray on the desperate."
"Ronon is right, Rodney," Teyla said, speaking low. "We must be careful and not draw attention to ourselves. Not all dangers involve the wraith."
Rodney sucked in a sharp breath and shivered, more from the cold than the mention of wraith. "Yes, that's all we need is the wraith showing up." He didn't sound frightened about it, just annoyed.
"They would head to the city," Ronon stated, but knew that Rodney was already aware of this. Wraith were the only predators to pick off herds rather than going for the strays. They were the only predators that could. So the only predator they had to worry about was their fellow man.
The road became more of an effort to walk when it inclined over some rise or mountain base. Ronon looked up and to his right at a nearby, snow-drenched peak cut in half by the solid ceiling of silver-white clouds bulging with snow. Solitary flakes swirled and caught in Ronon's eyelashes until he blinked them away. He felt the bony body in his arms shudder and give a small groan. Ronon looked down at Sheppard. The man's eyes were half-lidded, unfocused from sleep, but not so vacant as they regarded Ronon.
"Wr-ai-ttthhh?" It was a whisper, like a hoarse sigh. Ronon pulled John tighter against his chest for his own body heat to bleed through the blanket and help the thinner man. John's body shifted and it felt as though his bones had shifted, as though Ronon had just crushed them. Ronon flicked his tongue over his suddenly dry lips and eased up on his hold. He didn't allow for intimidation since intimidation of any kind was anti-survival, but carrying John was making him nervous. He could crush this man with nothing more than a squeeze and probably not even realize he was doing it.
"No wraith," Ronon said.
John's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Said... Wraith...?"
"We were just talking. McKay too much, as usual."
"Hey!" Rodney barked.
The corner of John's lips twitched toward a weak smile, then his eyes slid shut and his head slumped back against Ronon's shoulder. McKay sidled up to lean in for a peek into the blanket. "Is he awake?"
"Was," Ronon said.
"Is that natural?" McKay looked from John to Ronon. "Sleeping that much?"
Ronon looked down at John. "Probably, depending on what he's been through. He's been through a lot."
Rodney sighed, releasing a thick stream of fogged breath. "We all have...Just not to the point of being tossed onto a body heap."
"Exactly," Ronon said. Rodney gave into sympathy more these days, and selfishness more. The two were in a constant state of flux, like a split personality, one continually trying to dominate the other so neither taking permanent control.
Ronon idly wondered what Sheppard was going to be like when he finally woke up. Twitchy like Rodney? Or withdrawn and silent like Teyla? Or perhaps something else entirely.
A flash of something dark and misshapen flitted out of the corner of Ronon's left eye. He came to an abrupt halt, stiff and still, listening into the perfect, muffled silence. Rodney had moved a little ahead before looking back and stumbling to a halt, wide-eyed and breathing rapid.
"What? Did you hear something? See? Is it Sheppard? Has he stopped breathing? If he's stopped breathing you need to put him on the ground..."
"McKay!" Ronon hissed.
"There is something out there," Teyla explained, and whipped out the blaster.
Rodney's body stiffened until it began to shake. "Oh no," he whimpered. "Oh no. It's people from the city, the citadel. They came looking for us. I knew they would find us..."
"Rodney!" Teyla snapped in a voice that wavered, as though a part of her believed Rodney's words. "Please, stop."
Ronon tightened his hold on Sheppard in a way he hoped wasn't crushing the emaciated man. Motion darted on the right. Ronon snapped his head around, then snapped it around the other way at another shadow flowing spirit-like over the frozen earth. Teyla pivoted in every direction with the blaster held out in her rigid, steady arms.
"They move too fast," she gasped. "I cannot get a lock on any."
"What if it's wraith illusion," Rodney stuttered.
Teyla shook her head. "No wraith."
Ronon could not get a beat on any of the figures. They were there, then gone, on the left, the right, ahead, behind, everywhere. They made no sound, had no form. If Teyla and Rodney had not seen them, Ronon might have considered taking into account that he might simply be going mad. He spun and almost dropped Sheppard, trying to keep one of the forms in sight.
"We need to get out of here," Rodney panted. "We need to run!" And he did.
"McKay!" Ronon roared, pushing off the snow-slick ground to go after him. Both managed only four steps when creatures layered in ragged brown cloaks and skins stepped out from around thick-trunked trees, aiming rifles and crossbows at the four.
"Stay where you are," a creature in white and amber skins with horns curling out of a skull-head barked. The skull-head lifted. Beneath it was a face, human, with a thick auburn beard covering half and a heavy scar bisecting down his right eye. He moved in and the other skin-clad bodies moved in with him, forcing the team back toward each other until they were huddled together, Rodney trying to find a safe place behind Ronon, and Teyla standing in front of John's head.
"Lower your weapon," said the bearded man, "or we will be forced to harm you." The man's blue-gray eyes focused on Sheppard. Ronon twisted himself enough to put himself, relatively, between Sheppard and the bearded man. The bearded man looked from John to Ronon. Ronon saw no malice in the gaze. The man was wound tight with nervous yet tempered caution, but nothing else.
Teyla raised one hand as she crouched to set the blaster on the ground. One of the skin-clad rushed forward, snatched it, then rushed back. Both Teyla and Rodney flinched. She kept her eyes on the weapon as though it were food she desperately wanted but was too afraid to take.
"Please," she said, darting her gaze between the man who took the blaster and the bearded man. "That is our only means of protection. We are simple travelers trying to make our way home. We need that weapon to keep us safe. It is all the weapons we have."
It was a harsh truth to admit. Ronon didn't even have any hidden knives.
The bearded man circled the team, studying them, until he came around to Ronon's front. He moved slowly within reach to pull back the blanket for a look at John's face. Ronon jerked Sheppard's body away from the man. Rifles cocked and crossbows shifted to focus squarely on the runner. Ronon was aware of them, he just didn't care. He curled his lip baring teeth in a snarl at the man.
"You touch him," he growled. "I'll kill you."
The bearded man was in no ways intimidated, but complied by raising both hands and slowly backing away. His eyes flicked from John back to Ronon. "What ails him?"
"U-unsanitary c-conditions," Rodney's voice cracked.
"He is sick with hunger," Teyla said. Her eyes kept moving between the bearded man and the ground, between docility and defiance.
"You've not food to give him?" the man asked.
"He was left starving for too long. He was near death when we found him only a few short days ago. His body is too weak to handle normal foods."
The man nodded his understanding. Then said, "Come with us."
The three exchanged looks, Rodney's frightened and Teyla's uncertain. Ronon was well aware his own was angry. He looked down at Sheppard to see the man's eyes open back into slits, staring hard at Ronon even through the exhaustion, telling Ronon without words to do what would keep them all safe; which meant listening to the bearded man.
The bearded man was waiting, peering over his shoulder, allowing them a moment of uncertainty. None of the skin-clad prodded them in the back or barked at them to march. They waited until the team began moving, then followed in a way that kept them surrounded. The bearded skin-clad took them off the road and through the trees toward the mountain with the cloud-veiled peak.
They slogged through the snow over land that grew more rocky and inclined. Ronon heard McKay mumble something about over damn veils and stupid hills, or something like that. At least he was talking in the face of uncertainty. The skin clad brought them to the sheer rock face of a mountain side, spotted with patches of snow caught in the crannies. They skirted around this rock face to the other side and a hidden path so worn and cracked Ronon wasn't sure it should be called a path. It wound up into the mountain through trenches, then out in the open with a solid wall on one side and open air on the other, forcing the skin-clad to take position behind and in front of the team.
The journey was long, with no stops, and the days were short. They crossed an old, snow-slicked wooden bridge over what McKay kept calling a 'bottom-less ravine.' There was a bottom, but even without the mist hiding it Ronon was certain it was too far down to see. The runner kept his gaze fixed firmly on the frozen wood-slats. Coasting through the atmosphere in a jumper with Sheppard piloting he actually enjoyed. Having thin wooden planks between him and oblivion scared the hell out of him. Any bridge he came across during his time as a runner he crossed at a dash just to avoid the creaking and swaying. This bridge creaked, a lot, and it even cracked, although that was more the accumulated ice underneath giving way to the vibrations.
"You... 'kay?"
Ronon looked down at Sheppard who was staring languidly up at him. Ronon swallowed hard. "Yeah, why?"
"Heart's... pounding..." Sheppard slurred, then drifted back to sleep.
Ronon caught Rodney's pensive, considering look, so shot him a withering one in return. "What?"
Rodney shrugged in pure innocence that was a load of fodder. "Nothing, nothing at all."
Ronon narrowed his eyes. He could already see the gears of thought grinding in McKay's head, planning uses for Ronon's long hidden phobia toward heights against him. The scientist had never let Ronon live down his rather unmanly yelp over the Kri'ta worm Sheppard had said looked like a 'bull snake'. Kri'ta's were deadly poisonous, everyone knew that. Fearing them was conducive to survival.
They stepped off the bridge onto more solid ground, then into another ravine walling them in on both sides. Ronon's muscles eased out of their knots, while McKay's body stiffened from his own muscles starting to coil. Ronon had to admit the ravine was pretty tight, forcing them all to practically huddle together with arms touching arms. But it beat seemingly bottomless chasms and cracking bridges any day.
Night dropped fast but the skin-clads were prepared. Ronon heard the shriek of metal on metal, then squinted against the blinding white flare radiating from small metal and glass lanterns. This was no candle light, and McKay muttered something about phosphorous, magnesium, and other such chemicals. The resulting lights were superior to candles, lighting the path several long meters ahead. The ravine widened and the walls decreased until opening up to a broad path meandering over yet another, even grander chasm up to a collection of buildings gathered like a great nest tucked comfortably within the crags, pinpricked by lighted windows. The path left them open to the elements, winds increasing in strength spitting shards of snow that stung their exposed skin, but at least it wasn't an unstable bridge. Sheppard began shivering violently in Ronon's arms.
"Almost there, Sheppard," Ronon said. The going was slow thanks to the wind that Ronon tried to turn away from to keep off of Sheppard. His arms, legs, and lungs began to burn, and his right foot kept trying to slip out from under him on the loose ice-crystals frosting the path.
Ronon's foot slipped again, this time twisting, and he pitched forward. He moved fast lifting up his elbow to cushion John's head from the blow, but couldn't twist away in time to keep from landing on Sheppard's body. Both he and Sheppard cried out; Ronon when his knees scraped and elbow cracked on the ground, Sheppard when Ronon's heavier body slammed into his lighter one.
"Ronon!" Rodney and Teyla cried out. Ronon shoved the stinging pain in his knees out of his mind and scrambled to his feet, scraping sand and rock. Sheppard had managed to free one arm, trying weakly to push Ronon away then gripping the lapel of his coat. His eyes were squeezed shut and his face was drawn and twisted.
Ronon's heart seized. "Oh no."
Sheppard seethed, gasped, then breathed in shallow pants, chest heaving. "No..." he said breathlessly. "'M'alright. Alright. Good. 'M'good. S'okay..."
Teyla was already slipping her arm through the blanket, her hand bulging under it as it moved over Sheppard's chest. The skin-clads had stopped moving to wait and watch.
"What hurts?" Teyla asked. "Anything?"
"Ch-chest..." Sheppard rasped. "B-back... Not – not bad... Ache..."
Teyla nodded. "Nothing feels broken, but we should hurry."
"We are almost there," said bearded skin-clad. "I could have one of my men carry your friend."
Combination rage and terror boiled up inside of Ronon. "No!" he barked, involuntarily getting his arms to tighten their hold on Sheppard.
The bearded man bowed his head amiably. "As you wish it."
Teyla adjusted the blankets tighter around John before they started off again. It hurt to move, to breathe, the cold wind slicing into Ronon's lungs, but he would sooner loose a limb than hand Sheppard off to a stranger.
The path took them through a grand wooden gate that trundled open on their approach, then closed when they passed. The buildings of wood with slanted, slatted roofs rose up in levels that the path wound back and forth through. They were two-storied structures at least, and four at most, all connected by enclosed bridges that allowed the inhabitants to move from one building to the other without going outside. Yet people were outside. Ronon could see them on porches, verandas, and balconies. Elderly people buried under blankets sitting in rocking chairs of woven sticks, men and women around tables drinking from steaming iron mugs, and children playing with small animals that looked like nothing more than solid balls of fur with bushy tails and tiny snouts. The bearded skin-clad brought them up three levels before finally taking them into the almost stifling but welcome warmth of a building.
"It is beautiful," Teyla breathed in slack-jawed wonder. The hall they were in was wide, with polished wooden walls that ran diagonal, and pillars of wood so finely and intricately carved that Ronon could stare at it all day and still not see every design. The hall opened up into a large room like a communal lodge, with tall pillars and spiral stair-cases on the other side leading up to a walkway with rooms and hallways leading to more rooms. There was a massive fire blazing in a giant hearth of stone. Animals skins and padded chairs of woven branches were scattered everywhere. The majority of the armed skin-clads moved ahead up the stairs except for the bearded man and two others. They let the rest leave before taking the team up to the landing then down the narrow center corridor. The corridor took them into one of the connecting bridges that brought them to a wider hall of even more rooms.
They entered one of the central most doors, into a room with three beds on each side and a fireplace with an already blazing fire across from the door. The bearded man walked to the fire and pointed to the bed on the right side. "Set your friend there."
Ronon wasn't cooperating because the skin-clad had commanded it. He set Sheppard on the bed covered in a quilt and skin, then opened up the blanket for the heat of the fire to reach Sheppard's shivering body. Sheppard had strength enough to roll onto his side, facing the fire, and curl up with his arms tucked tight against his chest. The bearded man stepped aside when Teyla came over to help Ronon rub John's chest and arms warm. Rodney sat at the head of the bed on the side by the fire, removing his coat, then folding his arms tight. He was also shivering, they all were, until the heat of the fire finally began sinking into their bones.
The bearded man watched them for a moment as they helped warm John, his gaze unreadable. When Sheppard's shivering diminished into muscle quakes and the occasional twitch, the man stepped forward.
"My name is Arcas," he said. "First Emek of the Iyanek clan."
"Emek?" Rodney asked, rubbing his arms vigorously. "Is that like a chief or leader or whatever?"
Arcas shifted his gaze to stare at Rodney hard, as though looking for something, something that wasn't good. Ronon moved without seeming to a little closer to McKay.
"Leader, yes." Arcas wouldn't take his eyes off of Rodney, and the more he stared, the more it appeared he was seeing that unsavory something. And Rodney hadn't even opened his mouth to stick his foot in it yet. "You are from the city."
Rodney snorted. "City. Yeah, if you wanna call that stupid cesspool a city."
"You wear the robe of one of the magistrate's clerics."
"Not by choice, believe me. It's kind of the only warm clothes I have right now, besides the under shirt and what I guess are boxers, but I am not running around in those."
Arcas' look of displeasure morphed into confusion. Ronon had caught on from the moment Arcas started going unhappy when he looked at Rodney that he harbored as much of a soft spot for the city that Ronon did the wraith
Teyla had caught onto this as well. "We fled the city a few days back after we liberated our friend," she tilted her head toward Rodney, "from the citadel. He was made a cleric against his will. We were all forced into some form of servitude, but we are not from this world. We are explorers who traveled through the ancestral ring. We were on our way to the city of Tarak when we were attacked and taken by their enemies, then sold. I managed to escape and find the others, and now we are only trying to return home."
Arcas' went from confused to thoughtful as he, once again, assessed the four people before him: they're appearance, outward and in. Ronon's fading bruises, cuts and scars from the fighting arena. Teyla's fading bruises on her face, her thinness and eyes that couldn't hold eye contact as they used to. McKay, tense enough to snap. Sheppard, the worst out of all of them, so thin and weak he could barely even stay awake. The truth of Teyla's words were as vivid as moonlight in the dark sky.
Arcas said nothing. He was giving Ronon the sense of someone who wanted to believe, and probably did, but was not ready to express as much. Arcas was a man of reason, obviously, since he had yet to use any form of cruelty. He was also a man of pure caution. Ronon understood in a way that put him at ease around this man and in this place. The team was weakened, weaponless. They could not give Arcas a reason to distrust them even if they tried, and Ronon knew Arcas would eventually come to accept this.
"The Magistrate will sometimes attempt to send spies among us," Arcas said. "Spies disguised as runaway slaves. But, sometimes, we encounter true runaways. Sometimes they are simple to distinguish, sometimes they are not. It does not take long to determine the truth. I am afraid I am going to ask that you remain with us for a few days, until we are certain of you. Then you may be on your way."
Teyla smiled tremulously. "You speak as though this is a bad thing."
Arcas smiled back tiredly. "It depends on your intentions. If your intentions are good, then you are right, it is not a bad thing. I vow that no harm will come to any of you while you are here, and we will help you how we can. The nights come quickly but the day is not over. There is plenty of time before the evening meal for you to wash up. I will send in our healer to aid you."
With that said, Arcas took his leave, shutting the door behind him. McKay looked between Ronon and Teyla, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Think we can trust that guy?"
"Yes," Ronon said without preamble.
"You sure?"
"Positive."
"I believe they are of the Ja'atori people," Teyla said. "Most are nomadic but the clans on this side of the continent are said to take permanent residence in the more unreachable and remote places, such as the mountains and deeper forests. They are said to be a good people, private, with no desire for gain, only to live. They are also said to be the most ancient people of this world, and they know of ways to avoid the wraith."
"What you heard and what is isn't necessarily the same thing," Rodney said. The man liked to think of himself as the voice of reason, but came out sounding more of a paranoid pessimist. Ronon did not fault him that. It was wise to consider all options and sides of an issue. Except Rodney didn't know when to shut up about the negative sides.
"McKay," Ronon growled. "If these people had something bad in mind, it would have happened by now, believe me."
A soft groan from Sheppard effectively ended the conversation and all attention was drawn to him. John lifted his shaking head on his unsteady neck, trying to look around, only to end up dropping it back onto the pillow. "Where're we?" He tried pulling in a deep breath. The breath caught, he gasped, and exhaled on a small, pained whimper. "Looks like a... ski lodge."
"More or less," Rodney said. "Although you can forget any intentions of skiing."
"We are among a people known as the Iyanek tribe," said Teyla. "They brought us here to determine if we are spies from the city."
Sheppard took a more careful breath this time. "Made clear... we're not... Right?"
"I think the leader already knows," Ronon said. "He just wants to make sure."
"In the meantime, we get free room and board," Rodney said. Ronon was surprised to see the scientist smiling about it.
Sheppard sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded. Ronon thought he was about to go back to sleep when his eyes struggled open again. "Everyone 'kay?"
"We're good," Ronon said.
John nodded again. He was about to say more when the door opened and a stooped, heavy-boned lady with iron gray hair and dressed in a knit sweater, brush skirt, and a green-brown shawl over her shoulders shuffled in, thumping a cane on the floor. Several young women, from teens to twenties, followed after carrying baskets probably full of healing herbs and medical supplies. Ronon already guessed the woman to be the healer, making the young women apprentices or assistants.
"Are the baths free, Min?" the old woman asked. Her body might have been bent, and her face so wrinkled it looked like a dried onion, but her voice was strong and capable of some hefty shouts.
A willowy teen tucked a strand of tree-brown hair behind her ear and nodded. "Yes, madame Gelv."
Gelv directed the girls where to set the baskets, then turned to the team and bowed. "I am madame Gelv. Lord Arcas sent me to tend to you lot. So who's first, then?" She didn't wait for an answer when she bustled forward, flapping her hands to shew Teyla away and make room to get to Sheppard. She shuffled to the head of the bed and began by pulling Sheppard's eyelids wider, then his mouth while tilting his head back to look all the way to his throat. She felt along his throat with her gnarled, wood-like hands, and even then Sheppard remained listless and complacent, making Ronon wonder if he was even aware of what was happening.
Then she started removing his shirt. Sheppard's body stiffened. He gasped, pushing his hands into the bed to try and pull away. It was a pathetic effort, one that lasted three heartbeats when Sheppard's strength gave out. So instead of trying to struggle away, he started trembling.
Then begging. "No. Stop..."
Gelv did stop to look down at Sheppard in an admonishing sort of way. "Young man. If I am to help you, I must assess your full condition."
Ronon heard Sheppard's gulp and the whisper of his stubbled face rubbing the blanket when he nodded. Gelv lifted the shirt up to his armpits. When her hand touched his side it was met with a violent recoil of his ribcage that got her snatching her hand as though she'd been bit.
"I barely touched you boy. Don't go telling me that hurt."
John, still shivering, shook his head no.
"Maybe he doesn't like to be touched," McKay said, looking beyond irate to being pissed. Ronon cocked an eyebrow. It made sense considering who he'd been sold too. Teyla had told him about it; how the man had studied John with the same suggestive leer as the women. Then there were the mines and the stories Beornin had told of them. Stories of beatings without provocation, and humans treated as objects. The overseers of the mines, Beornin had said, didn't have a care for gender. Knowing Sheppard, he wouldn't stand for it. He'd break their fingers and gladly take a bullet for it rather than let them touch him in that way. But they would have tried, and he would have been severely punished for it afterwards. Of course he'd end up hating to be touched, just as Teyla now had an aversion toward touch; except when it was Rodney catching her arm when she fell, and Ronon carrying John and holding him up to eat.
The touch of a stranger was another matter.
Gelv didn't take Rodney's words as an insult but into consideration. She placed one dried hand gently on John's head and slowly caressed, speaking softly, her features melting into something Ronon could only describe as maternal.
"Shhh, it is all right," Gelv breathed. "I am not going to hurt you. I wish only to help you."
The cooing wasn't helping, Sheppard was still shivering. Gelv shuffled back to make room and waved Teyla in. "Speak to him, love. Keep him calm."
Teyla squeezed her way in to kneel at the head of the bed. She took John's hand in her own, caressing his head with the other, and whispering to him. The next time Gelv touched John's side, his reaction was more of a twitch than a flinch. She fingered his ribs, then with Teyla's help turned him onto his other side for the same. She had him placed his back so she could press her ear to his chest and listen to his heart, then positioned on his stomach for a listen to his lungs through the back.
There were bruises on John's back that were fresh, a misshapen one in the middle of his back, and one across the shoulders where Ronon's arm had been. Ronon looked away.
"Well," Gelv said, lifting her head. "There's a bit of a rattle to his lungs but nothing a warm bath and some unctan tea can't fix. I'll need help getting him to the baths. Let him have a bit of a soak as I check the rest of you. Someone'll need to watch him. He's not got the strength to be by himself."
"I'll do it," Ronon said.
Gelv nodded. "Good. You can keep him upright. And bring him. I will return to attend the rest of you soon."
Ronon gathered John and followed Gelv from the room into the hall. They did not go far, just through three hallways, then across one of the enclosed bridges to the smallest of the buildings that was only one story. It was not so much a building as an enclosure surrounding natural hot springs divided by walls into individual baths. Gelv had brought them to the largest. She went to a closet and pulled out plain cloths for washing and drying, setting them by the spring's edge.
"A guard will be stationed outside the door. Tell him when you are finished and he will bring you back." Gelv then left.
Ronon curled his lip in sudden trepidation. He had no problem sharing the spring with Sheppard. It was large enough to allow for some personal space. Undressing his team leader he had problems with, because he knew Sheppard would have a problem with it. Sheppard had yet to have an issue with his team man-handling him because they were his team, he trusted them. But being undressed, even by a team member, was still going to be pushing it.
Too bad there wasn't much choice in the matter.
Ronon set John down beside the spring, and the moment he did, Sheppard started pushing himself upright. He managed to get to his elbow, paused to catch his breath, then slid his arm into the sleeve of his shirt and pushed his shirt off over his head, letting it slide down the other arm. He paused again, panting.
" Do I have to lose the pants?" he rasped.
"Kind of defeats the point of a bath otherwise," Ronon replied.
John nodded, then looked up at Ronon imploringly. "Could... You turn around?"
Ronon furrowed his brow. John looked away down into the water, then at the far wall. "Humor me... Please?"
Ronon did. He turned back around when he heard a splash. John's lower half was in the water while his upper body and arms were clinging to the rim of the spring. He remained that way until Ronon stripped and slipped in to take Sheppard under the armpits and move him to a shallow spot so he could sit, the water coming up to below his collarbones. Ronon grabbed a folded cloth to place against the rim for John to lean his bony back against.
"Thanks, big guy," John sighed wearily. "Just... Give me a moment. I can wash myself."
Ronon nodded. He grabbed his own cloth to start washing, staying close but also giving John a little space.
Ronon scrubbed hard over the scabs, and more carefully over the bruises of his own body. Lacerations from whips, swords, knives, and burn marks from blasters. The fighting arena was a joke as well as the biggest means of entertainment for the populace. The weapons were whatever was tossed into the ring by the taskmasters and spectators. Ronon's fifth opponent he'd defeated by stabbing him with a spoon, by which the audience had been uproariously amused.
Ronon wasn't proud of it. Amused himself in a distant sort of way, yes. The rest of the kills were matters of survival that he wouldn't dwell on. Except he did, sometimes. It was a joke of survival. Death, killing – if it had to be done, Ronon preferred if it was during a war, or if it was a wraith. If it had to be human, let them be no better than the wraith. He'd never thought he'd ever become picky over how, when, and who he killed. He'd tried not to kill this one guy, a kid barely out of his teens. He'd broken the kid's legs then refused to go any farther than that. In the end, he was beat for it, and the kid was tossed with the rest of the bodies... alive.
It took three days for the kid to stop screaming, and boy had Ronon learned his lesson. Death was a necessity, and a quick death was a privilege.
What was funny in a very non-amusing way was that death never bothered Ronon, but he did get sick of it after a while. Killing in self-defense, even killing a wraith, it became like the time he'd worked at the meat packing plant that processed locora meat: curing it, turning it into something the equivalent of the earth food sausage. Two years he worked at that plant to help earn a little more income to aid his family. That long being subjected to the stench of blood and boiled locora meat, and the mere smell of it, even when fried, would turn his stomach until he vomited.
He killed when he had to, without feeling, without remorse, never looking back on it. Then came the days when the next blast and explosion of blood and tissues turned his stomach. That was the extent, a knotted gut. At least it let him know he wasn't entirely numb.
When he had handed over his blaster to Teyla so he could take Sheppard, a part of him had been relieved. Given time, it would fade, especially should the lives of his friends be at stake. It was that easy a transition, so he went with it.
Ronon heard the soft lap of water and looked up to see Sheppard shifting to grab a cloth. His motions were methodical, laconic, as though the air around him was water. He started at his shoulders with a vacant look in his eyes that made the motions mechanical. Ronon took his first real look at Sheppard since they found him in the ravine; part to assess his condition, and part out of morbid fascination and horror. It was not that he had never witnessed the body of the starved – he'd traveled too many places to be naïve to anything. Witnessing starvation in someone he knew, someone who was both a friend and a leader, made it personal, and therefore terrible; like when he was no longer numb to death.
Sheppard's skin looked fragile as old parchment and colorless as bleached bones. The actual bones were ragged and sharp. Ronon could recall their feel digging into his arm, even through the blanket, and they had felt as sharp as they looked. It didn't seem possible that John could move, that any muscle could still exist.
Sheppard scrubbed his chest and sank further into the water until it was up to his neck, either because he was tired, or was distantly aware that Ronon was staring at him. If it was the latter, then a part of John must not have cared or he would have been scowling at Ronon by now.
"They never did anything, you know."
Ronon froze in scrubbing his other arm. He hadn't been expecting John to say anything. Mostly he'd been expecting John to fall back asleep and start sliding into the water. So he didn't reply since he didn't know what to say.
Sheppard's eyes opened a little wider and rolled in Ronon's direction. The ferocity Ronon saw both stunned and amazed him. Defiance that potent shouldn't have been possible for someone so frail.
"I made sure of it." Sheppard looked away. "Didn't mean they didn't try. Sure as hell did. Got me naked..." his voice caught and he dropped his gaze to the water. His throat undulated in a constricted swallow. "But that guy – Morket or whatever his name was – didn't like the fact that I bite, and that guy was a freakin' sadist. Guess tetanus is a universal fear, or he actually believed it when I promised I'd rip out his throat." The water rippled when John's arm moved back and forth, scrubbing his chest. "Those overseer guys at the mine give up when you kick at them enough. You just have to..." bony shoulders poked out of the water in a shrug, "get in touch with your inner, pissed, cornered, rabid wild cat." He chuckled, tiredly, and a touch unstable. His eyes went glassy and inward. The hand holding the cloth rose out of the water, clutching the cloth as though it were a neck he were squeezing the life out of. He stared at the cloth, suddenly fascinated by it and the bone-whiteness of his knuckles. It was almost innocent, childlike, the consideration he was giving that already lifeless piece of cloth. For the first time ever, Ronon had to suppress a shudder.
Ronon didn't like that and wanted it to end. He reached out toward Sheppard, his fingers brushing over the protruding knot on pilot's shoulder. Sheppard jumped, cringing away, wary and feral, until he realized it was Ronon and his gaze cleared.
"You okay?" Ronon asked. Why are you telling me all this? stayed put in his mind.
John nodded, confused and abashed, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he recalled his surroundings. "Yeah," he said. Then looked at Ronon, imploringly. "Just... If it's ever brought up, or asked – 'cause I know it won't be asked, not to me, not directly – could you... Could you say something? Just... Say I wasn't... That nothing happened?"
The ferocity, the vacancy, the madness was gone, and so was Sheppard's gaze cast back to the reflections rippling in the water.
Ronon let the silence settle around them for a moment before he finally resumed cleaning. "Yeah, I'll say something."
More silence, then Ronon decided to say something that needed to be said. "Nothing happened to Teyla either."
John looked up, smiling a smile of relief that was draining.
Ronon finished washing faster than Sheppard. While John finished up, Ronon climbed out, dried off, dressed and waited. When John no longer had the energy to keep cleaning, Ronon grabbed a towel and helped Sheppard out in a way that kept him covered. Ronon wasn't going to question, or even speculate, on Sheppard's new-found self-conscious streak. He did get pissed about it. Sheppard was defiant, stubborn, didn't scream when a wraith had fed on him, and only revealed fear when it was someone else in danger. So it would have had to have taken something malign and something constant – something too great to comprehend – to have Sheppard shaking over some harmless old woman checking his injuries.
Teyla would know what that something was, but Ronon had no mind to question her either.
Ronon kept his face turned away as he held Sheppard upright so he could dress on his own. He went the route of slinging Sheppard's arm across his shoulders and gripping him around the waist rather than carry him. Sheppard needed to start rebuilding his strength. The guard on the other side of the door led them back to the room. The moment they stepped into the connecting bridge out of the muggy heat of the hot springs, Sheppard began shivering. Next he began sweating, then his legs gave out until Ronon had no choice but to carry him. When they got back to the room, Teyla was sitting on the edge of the bed letting Gelv show her the many healing herbs, McKay was pacing before the fire, and the apprentices were listening intently to what Gelv had to say.
Gelv dropped the lecture and indicated with a wave and a point for Ronon to lay Sheppard in the bed by the fire. The blankets were turned down, ready to cover Sheppard. Before that, Gelve had Teyla lift John's shirt and speak to him while poultices were applied and his ribs were bound. After that, he was lowered onto his back and covered up to his neck.
"Arcas wishes for you to join him for the evening meal," Gelv said. "Until then, let your friend rest. And you two," she straightened and pointed from Teyla to Rodney. "It is time for you to get cleaned up. You, Master McKay, will be given different clothes to wear. The robes of the citadel clerics are not welcome here."
Rodney stared at her for a moment, unreadable, and Ronon believed he was going to launch into a high-pitched protests.
"I could hug you," he said instead. "Yes, please, new clothes. And burn this robe. Actually, let me burn it. I never did get to punch a single one of those bastards in the face. The least I can do is laugh merrily as their precious robe burns to ash. did you know they cut your meals if you so much as get a smudge on them?"
Gelv chuckled, and Teyla smiled as she took Rodney's arm to lead him from the room.
"Separate rooms for those two!" Gelv called to the guard.
"I'll get Anya to assist!" The guard replied.
"Good, because if I hear you've been peeping, I'll tan your hide into leather!" Gelv called back. She shook her head, chuckling softly as she shuffled over to Ronon. "Lerif's a good lad. He won't be doing any peeking on the lady. Is she the mate of one of you?"
Ronon shook his head. "Just a friend."
Gelv had Ronon sit on the bed, then did him the honors of removing his coat and shirt. She paused to look over the cuts, scars and bruises marking up Ronon's body, and her expression became devoid. "Fighting arena," she said; stating, not questioning.
Ronon was caught up in the turmoil of feeling ashamed, defensive, and a little uncertain. He was ready to argue over survival and doing what he needed to do to maintain it. He also wanted to argue that death had never been an issue for him. Gelv said nothing to warrant either arguments, just began cleaning. Yet Ronon still felt something needed to be said, just to break the silence.
"There was no honor in it."
"Yes," Gelv said.
Ronon swallowed. That hadn't been enough. "There was no reason for it."
The poking and prodding at his back ceased. A warm, dry hand gripped his shoulder, squeezed, then returned to poking and prodding.
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John was quietly but firmly insistent that he make it to the dining hall on his own two feet for however long he lasted. It was an insistence pushed without his usual sulky resolve and wounded pride, because he was begging. He promised he could make it, and then said please in a subdued tone that was emotionless yet cracked. Sheppard's dignity had been painfully stripped and he was getting it back one piece at a time. Ronon understood that, so relented after the first please, though McKay had argued weakly against it.
The going was slow to allow Sheppard to keep up. He shuffled down the hall leaning heavily against Ronon, wrapped in a blanket. Ronon kept one arm around Sheppard's shoulders and a hand on his arm. He was planning in advance to have Teyla support John down the stairs, since they'd be able to walk side by side, when John's legs gave out and Ronon was back to cradling the man in his arms. A glance at Sheppard revealed the pilot's frustration. Frustration was good. Frustration meant Sheppard wasn't as resigned to his fate as Ronon was beginning to suspect. Acquiescing without complaint meant Sheppard wasn't going to push things. The man was stubborn, but he was far from stupid.
The dining hall was the same room they first went through on entering the 'ski lodge.' The skins and chairs had been moved for light, low-set tables to be placed across the floor. There were no chairs, just pillow mounds. Arcas was seated near the fire and rose when the team entered to wave them over.
"The place closest to the hearth is for those who suffered the cold the longest," Arcas said. "And visitors." Then he added with a grin, "I believe you qualify as both."
Teyla bowed her head. "Thank you, Arcas."
Ronon took the seat by the fire so Sheppard could lean against him, without the worry of John pitching in the wrong direction. Arcas remained standing even when the team was seated. All present at the tables bowed their heads and closed their eyes. The team copied, Teyla nudging Rodney and hissing at him to follow out of respect. Rodney rolled his eyes before finally closing them. Arcas then launched into a prayer spoken in a lilting, flowing tongue that Ronon found himself thinking would be lovely to hear to music. Seven years as a runner hadn't stripped him of an appreciation for aesthetics and art. It had enhanced it, to the point that he'd nearly been captured when he'd paused to look in wonder at the collection of prismatic bows arching over a silver-foamed waterfall.
The language Arcas spoke could have easily translated into a poem. Then it was over, abruptly it seemed. Ronon snapped his eyes open, tense, until he saw Arcas easing himself into the nest of pillows. Plates, bowls, cups, and eating utensils stacked at the far end of the table were passed down. Then iron pots and clay bowls of food handed around for everyone to spoon a helping. A woman of fifty years leaned in next to Teyla, handing her a mug of something steaming.
"Madame Gelv said that the dark-haired one is to drink this. She could not be present as she is dining with her family."
Teyla took the mug with a docile thank you. She roused John who'd been dosing and brought to cup to his lips, telling him to say something if the broth was too hot. Sheppard took a few careful sips. Teyla set the mug down when the food came to them. There were stews, roasted meat, and a plethora of vegetables. There was water, along with various juices and a drink that was both warm and spicy. Teyla would eat a little, help John drink, then eat more, back and forth. McKay was hunkered protectively over his plate, shoveling food at a rate that should have had him choking by now. Ronon tore off bits of meat and tossed them into his mouth. No one had dared take food from him in the arena. Neither had it been a luxury for him. He'd been too prized a fighter to force into submission through starvation but it hadn't kept him full.
Arcas said little to them. He asked them how they were enjoying the food, introduced them to his wife, two sons, and daughter, then talked a little on the last people they had helped who had worked in the government fields. All polite conversation to mask the fact that he was observing each team member with a practiced eye. This man knew what to look for that would tell him if this little band he had taken in should be trusted, or disposed of.
Ronon had expected Arcas' sights to linger on McKay. Apparently, McKay's pushing for himself to be the one to burn the citadel robe had put Arcas' mind at ease. McKay had been rather manically gleeful about tossing that robe into the fire.
Arcas' gaze lingered longer on Ronon, occasionally shifting to Rodney, then darting to Teyla and Sheppard when Teyla brought the cup to Sheppard's lips.
When a person finished their meal they simply stood, stacked their dishes at the end of the table, and left. Teyla and John finished first, and Rodney second only because he needed to help Teyla get Sheppard back to their room. Ronon didn't linger for much longer, so finished in time to catch up and carry Sheppard when his legs gave out only a few feet from the room. Ronon took that as progress. Teyla moved ahead to pull down the blankets. Ronon set Sheppard in the bed and Teyla tucked him in. Rodney collapsed into the bed across from John's.
"Oh this is sweet," he groaned. "I will never complain about a lumpy mattress again. My spine is already singing its praises."
"Had you no bed at the citadel?" Teyla asked in mild curiosity as she slipped beneath the covers of the bed next to John.
Rodney propped himself up on his elbows and scowled. "We had cots, a sheet, and this flat piece of cloth they called a pillow." Rodney dropped back, pulling the blankets up to his chin and squirming in deeper. "Better than nothing, I suppose, but that place got damn cold and those cots were damn hard."
Ronon just sat on his bed across from Teyla's, waiting until the others drifted off to sleep, then watching the rise and fall of their chests, and listening to the vibrating snores from McKay. He then rose, flung on his coat, and headed out letting a sharpened memory guide him through the halls to where he'd seen a door leading out onto a balcony. Crisp winter air bumped against him like the head of an overly affectionate pet. Ronon breathed deep for that air to cut into his lungs. Old snow crunched under his boots as he stepped out to lean up against the carved wooden balustrade.
The sky was clear and interrupted only by the surrounding peaks. Time was irrelevant, like the cold. Ronon didn't care how long he'd been outside when Arcas showed up. Ronon had been expecting his arrival. The man had things to say, but dinner had not been the time or he would have said them them. Arcas stood just outside the threshold, wearing a heavy skin cloak and a coat. He had his hands in the pocket of the coat, his stance relaxed, even a little weary.
"Gelv tells me you were a pit fighter," he said.
Ronon snorted. "Gelv talks to much."
"I was not making an accusation. We've had pit fighters come. They tend to be ill at ease, protective of the self. We've had to be careful of them."
Ronon turned his head enough to see the man. "This your not so subtle way of explaining why they'll be a guard outside our door?"
Arcas shook his head and stepped out closer toward the balustrade. "No guard. No need. A man who willingly and gladly carries the body of another man is not one who's out to maintain the self. The life that you and your friends have endured has made you more open than you realize. Those sent to spy on us try too hard when they play pretend. Their fear is too... rehearsed, too... artificial. It does not matter how well they train, their emotions are so manipulated that there is nothing about them that is real. You and your friends are too exhausted to play pretend."
Ronon shrugged. "A good night's rest, we'll be up to doing anything."
Arcas grinned. "This exhaustion has nothing to do with the body."
"There something you want?" Ronon said, and didn't care if it sounded less than hospitable. He was tired of games.
"No," Arcas said. "I just came to tell you that you and your friends are welcome to stay for as long as you need to heal. You said you had your own world to go back to, so I do not have to tell you that you cannot live among us. It is not our way."
Ronon didn't need an explanation. Every person had their own world, their own ways. Sometimes it was easy to integrate, or at least come to tolerate. Other times it was impossible. The rest of the time, it was just down right rude, because there was always that desire to change all the little things you didn't like about that culture.
"I get the feeling that you will not be here for long," said Arcas.
Ronon grinned. It wasn't a threat, just the obvious. The gate was only days away and on the other side was a home that they needed to get back to. They would wait for as long as it took for Sheppard to regain enough strength to walk. They would easily wait longer, but Sheppard wouldn't let them. He would insist that they go on without him, to send back help, and it was an unspoken agreement among them that they would never do this. Giving Sheppard time to regain strength was a compromise. Ronon had no qualms about carrying him, but he wasn't going to deny the man even a minuscule of pride. Then there was Teyla and Rodney, who could do with the rest themselves.
"We've been gone too long," Ronon said. They've been gone too long; the three people asleep in the guest room. Ronon was closer to content since somewhere down the line, those three people had become home; a home he could take with him and a home he could save. Four walls and a roof eventually crumbled, but people made an impression that lived beyond the body into memory. Ronon preferred it that way, even if it was more painful. He'd been homesick to an almost literal point until Teyla had found him. The homesickness he felt now was more an urgency to get the three people back to the safety of Atlantis before they were lost again.
Arcas gave Ronon a brief clasp on the shoulder that got Ronon to turn his head and regard the man. But Arcas left the balcony. Ronon had his own feeling; Arcas understood what it meant to be homesick. The scar over his eye said as much.
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TBC...
A/N: Sorry for the lack of excitement. Think of this as a calm before the storm chapter, giving them a chance to heal a little more, Sheppard especially because I am not having him down for the count the entire time. The next chapter I'm planning will have a lot more something to it.