Edited March 1st, 2018.
3
May it be the shadow's call will fly away,
May it be you journey on to light the day.
When the night is overcome,
You may rise to find the sun.
"May It Be", Enya
In a soundless blaze of colours, one of the Wraith cruisers disappeared from the battlefield, taking a group of Darts and two unfortunate Asuran fighters with it. Darien had no time to think about their loss, however. It was to be expected when up against the Wraith. They were all prepared to die.
The bridge of the Asuran ship Gael was silent, but the back of each technician's mind was teeming with information and messages going back and forth at speeds too fast for a human or even a Wraith to comprehend.
Three Darts in the fourth quadrant. Redirecting drones.
Hydea has taken a hit to the sublight engines. Compensating energy loss and bypassing primary conductors.
Move Gael to Hydea's left flank.
Moving.
Drone capacity at 43 per cent. Potential jam in tube Beta 6. Technicians en route.
Fighter Altea losing power.
Altea, aim for the Hive ship's sector 36, section 29.
All ships, concentrate fire on sector 36, section 29.
Commands and counter-commands passed through Darien's nanite synapses without interference, his fingers running over the controls in response. In return, he sent back sensory information of everything going on outside the ship, providing targeting information for each potential Dart, Cruiser and Hive ship he could come across.
Normally, there was no need to divert neural processing power to anything other than his primary task, but then his console pinged. Darian almost froze and his sensory information gathering was cut down by more than seventy per cent.
It's not possible.
Hundreds of voices broke out amidst the combat chatter, all uttering the same astonished phrase. As what he was seeing transmitted to everyone else, more cogs in the Asuran hive machine halted momentarily, giving the Wraith an edge over them. Three Asuran fighters were taken down in the intermission before the others got back to their primary task.
Darien, however, was immediately reassigned to a new primary task while someone else took over his previous one. Tracking the sole Wraith Dart as it entered the atmosphere of the planet below, a smaller part of his synapses came alive with the first individual thought since the battle began: They're alive?
Don't lose them. A new voice spoke directly to his consciousness, bearing their leader's identification code. We are on our way.
Darien was momentarily stunned. The high command ship was not part of this battle; it usually stayed behind at a safe distance. If it was suddenly coming here…
They are headed for the planet's stargate, Darien responded at once over the subspace network, taking in the latest targeting information. It has begun its dialling sequence.
A hint of desperation seemed to enter the leader's code. Fighter Quarran, pursue Wraith dart Alpha. All ships, provide cover.
In a rush of motion, the Asuran ships moved at high speed to get in between the enemy and the fighter Quarran. Collision warnings sounded above the increased chatter, weapons impact intensified, and yet Darien knew it wouldn't be enough.
Stargate just disconnected, he reported with a sense of failure. Wraith dart Alpha is gone.
For a while, there was nothing. Then: Quarran, break off pursuit. All ships, focus on the Hive ship. Take it down or drive it off. We are on our way.
Darien's primary task changed once more and he was back on external sensors.
However, that small individual part of his consciousness didn't stop thinking about the Atlantean locator beacons he'd just seen disappear through the stargate. He'd thought all the Earthborn were gone from Pegasus. If they were still around…
Darien. Their leader's voice addressed him directly once more. Eyes on the job.
Yes, ma'am.
One month later
The rain was pouring down, reducing visibility to almost zero and making the shapes moving around in the haze nothing more than faint silhouettes. They looked like ghosts and maybe that term was fitting. Despite all the hardships they'd suffered and the extra tough skin they'd grown, the Wraith attack had thrown them off guard. No one had had a celebration or laughed in weeks. Instead, people's faces were drawn and exhausted. Even the children were less boisterous, as if sensing the adults' underlying severity and adapting to it.
It broke Sam's heart, one piece after another. However, like the sharp and jagged wind penetrating her leather coat and furry underclothes, she barely felt it. She was numb.
"I'm not sure if we'll be able to harvest everything in time." Her voice only just carried over the gales of wind beating against her ears. "There's so few of us left."
"Everyone's doing their best." Standing beside her, Sarah poured a cup of hot broth and handed it to Sam. Rain slapped down at the other woman's bare skin and Sam could see it'd already reddened in response to the colder weather. "We'll make do. Always had."
Wrapping her stiff and cold fingers around the cup, Sam drank slowly. The hot liquid and spices were familiar, but they did nothing to ease her worries. There were simply too many of them. With so many lost in the culling…
"David asked if he could come too." A lump formed in Sam's throat as she recalled her son's crestfallen face before she'd left the warmth of their house earlier. "He wanted to help."
Sarah paused. "At some point, we'll have to consider it. These are skills they'll need to learn."
Sam knew that and still… She blinked away sudden tears. "He's not even four."
"I know," Sarah said gently. Her eyes flicked to the fields ahead of them, searching for the tall and short shapes of her husband and daughter. Standing this close, Sam could see the shared worry in Sarah's eyes and she rested a hand on the woman's arm. Sarah gave her a little smile. "We'll be all right."
Sam wanted to believe that. She really did. After all, they'd been through worse. They'd seen their friends die in front of them from injuries and cold without being able to do anything; they'd survived a crash, several winters, sickness, and animal attacks… What was one more attack? What was one more loss?
"He should be here," Sam said heavily, hand drawn unconsciously to the barely noticeable swell beneath her thick clothes.
Sarah gripped Sam's hand and squeezed. "Yes, he should."
Everything ached. Everything was hot. No clouds and high humidity made the heat beat down on them like Muhammad Ali's right fist, setting their lungs on fire. Struggling through the jungle undergrowth, swatting away flies and releasing a string of curses beneath his breath, John felt liable to kill the next person to open his mouth.
Which was probably why no one said a word.
It was a relief when the thickest part of the jungle suddenly gave way to more sparsely populated trees, signalling the end of their journey was getting near. The air seemed to freshen up as well, filling John's lungs with less searing heat than before. He could hear the trickle of water and felt hopeful.
"This is it," John said as he passed through the trees more quickly towards the bright light in the distance. His legs took longer strides, faster and faster until he almost ran, taking no heed to his broken arm.
But when he finally reached their destination, he stopped short. He stared for a moment, then balled his healthy fist and struck the trunk of the tree next to him.
"Oh fuck!" Ever the eloquent one, Ramirez spoke for all of them.
John gritted his teeth, still unsatisfied with the numb pain spreading in his fist. Too little. It was always too damn little and too late.
"That was the last on our list, wasn't it?" Falling down to her knees on the edge of the cliff they were currently standing on, Durani let her makeshift bag slump to the ground with a dull thud. Her black hair was plastered to her skull, her clothes sticking to her skin, but the sweat could not hide the exhausted tears falling down her grimy face.
Thumping the tree again and again, trying desperately to beat back the hollow feeling in his chest, John cursed beneath his breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Ronon's brief grasp on his shoulder made him open them, forcing him to look reality in the eye.
Twenty-six days of freedom and nothing had changed. They were still on their own. They were still so damn far away from home. The Wraith hadn't broken them, but this walking hell was getting them damn close to the edge.
And right on that other side of the edge was proof that John and Atlantis had screwed up. The once flourishing civilisation of an agricultural people called the Javidi was gone, replaced instead by a devastating battlefield of ruins and scorched earth that stretched as far as their eyes could see. From this distance, John could see a few optimistic vines and bushes trying to cover up the years-old destruction, but it was pointless.
There was no customary humour in John's tone when he spoke. "Seven years and you'd think the almighty Wraith would've figured out how to turn off the damn Asuran attack code. It's like they're not even trying."
"We're still alive," said Ronon.
John swore again beneath his breath, turning automatically away from the others lest they hear. "Getting really tired of hearing that, big guy."
"Can't do much when you're dead." Always so matter-of-factly. Always some cheeky reply to whatever John said. It was driving him up the walls, or trees, or whatever.
He tilted his head slightly towards Ronon, hissing, "You call this alive?"
The Satedan's dark eyes only narrowed. The pain in John's still-healing broken left arm flared up, no doubt responding to the arduous trek through the jungle. Gritting his teeth, he rubbed the rudimentary cast Grayson had fashioned more than three weeks ago, cursing the heat, cursing the dull pain, cursing the damn Wraith and the Asurans and Atlantis for leaving them all behind to deal with this shitty mess and—and-and—
John's right fist met the nearest tree and his knuckles split, and the word he'd suppressed for so long tore itself past his vocal chords in a prolonged "Fuck!"
Then, blood pounding in his ears, he stormed back the way they'd come. Whether the others followed or not, he didn't care. He just couldn't be here. He just couldn't stand still.
Seventy-six lines were drawn in the dirt, followed by a question mark. After a moment of staring at them, John used the same thin branch to wipe them all out, erasing them from existence. Then he leaned back against the tree trunk and gazed up at the unfamiliar stars with a heavy sigh that echoed hollowly in his chest.
No Pyxia. No compass to lead them home. No ship to take them there either. Hadn't exactly taken them long to figure that out once the high of escaping Todd's Hive ship had settled. Without a known stargate on Terra Nova, the only way to get there was by ship, and even that was going to be a nigh impossible challenge.
"What'd you think?" His voice low, John expected an answer even without sensing Ronon's presence nearby. "Travelers, Earth or breaking into the ship we just left?"
"Not going back. Had enough of the Wraith," Ronon said from the campfire behind John, just a tad bit louder than the soft snores coming from the others. "Got no ship to reach the Travelers – if they're still around. So… Earth."
"Which means we either gotta find a power source of some kind that can make the dial…" John scratched the edge of his rudimentary caste. Despite the painful throbbing in his broken arm, it was welcome. Anything to dull that other, more fundamental ache that'd haunted him for the past two months in captivity and which was starting to sneak up on him again. "…or we hope the Midway station's still operational and we can hijack one of the gates in the bridge to send us there."
"Gotta get stronger first. Find food and weapons, technology, maybe allies." Judging by the sound of rustling, Ronon had shifted and gotten to his feet. Moments later, he crouched down next to John and held out a skewered squirrel-like creature that'd been roasted over the fire. "You didn't eat."
Age-old, ingrained discipline made John accept it and start eating, even if his stomach protested the sudden intake. They were soldiers again and he knew just as well as Ronon what that entailed. Whatever it took, they had to think about the mission. For so many years, it'd been the role he knew best of all.
But I'm not only that, John thought as Ronon walked back to his seat by the fire.
His eyes drifted back to the disturbed dirt at his feet, catching sight of a single line that'd escaped the carnage, and his insides twisted. With a fierce scrape of his foot, the dirt was just dirt again, and John's jaws clamped tightly down on the skewered meat in his hand.
It took him the rest of the day to calm down. By the time he shuffled back into their current base – a camp set on the outskirts of a ghost town on M5V-801 – the others had already fallen into an exhausted sleep.
Well, almost everyone. John saw Grayson's frame seated by the embers of their campfire, and exhaled heavily.
"It won't heal if you don't let it," Grayson said as John, scratching the itch along the edge of the cast on his left arm, sat down next to him.
John knew he didn't mean the broken bones.
After a moment of silence, Grayson nodded towards the sleeping form of Hutchinson, which was curled up against a large rock. "I think Mick's ready. No relapse for three days. Coherent speech. Memory improving. Appetite restored."
As he spoke, Grayson picked up a skewered bird he'd clearly grilled on the fire earlier, handing it to John. Although the meat was cold, John wasn't picky. He couldn't afford to. But despite the hunger he felt, he quickly became full, leaving half the bird on the skewer.
He knew Grayson noticed. They all did.
John cleared his throat, his voice sounding foreign. "That's good. Glad he made it."
In the corner of his eye, he could see Grayson scrutinise him. John kept his eyes on the glowing embers of the fire, jaw tightening. The turmoil of emotions that'd kept him away all day threatened to rise past his defences again. He didn't want Grayson to witness that. He was supposed to be strong, and he wasn't.
"They're getting tired, John," the Doc said after a while. He stared at the other sleeping forms and exhaled heavily, reaching up to rub the ridge of his nose. John's stomach twisted. "I think we should all stay put for a little while. Get some rest. Clear our heads."
John's lips thinned, the aftertaste of the grilled bird turning bitter in his mouth. As his eyes swept across the rest of his team, a familiar, claustrophobic sense of shame dislodged from the pit of his stomach: overpowering him, suppressing the hotness in his blood and making him shiver.
There wasn't really much he could say. John knew all too well that he'd failed them. That he kept failing them. Neither the soldier nor the leader was measuring up. And for all he'd done, for all he'd tried to do, time hadn't stopped running out.
But at least Grayson deserved an answer – and the illusion of a leader. "Okay."
For a moment, only the crackling from the dying fire kept the silence at bay.
Then Grayson grasped John's shoulder, his tone gentle. "Get some sleep, John. New day tomorrow."
John just nodded distantly. The hand felt foreign on his shoulder, and its touch lingered even after Grayson had found his sleeping mat and settled down with a deep exhale.
After a long look at each of the sleeping members of his team – his friends, his family – John's gaze drifted upwards. More than anything, he wanted to find those stars he missed more than he should allow himself to feel right now, but they weren't there.
All that he found was the cold moon peeking out from behind a dark streak of clouds. Staring at him. Judging him. Finding him wanting.
It'd been automatic at first. Secure the wreckage and put out any fires. Locate food, water, and shelter. Recover survivors from the wreck. Triage the wounded, bury the dead. Establish a perimeter. Gather all available supplies. Send off mayday signal if possible.
It'd been effortless, easy. John just followed his training. No need to think, only act. Even as the final headcount came in and he'd seen four people die in front of his eyes, he'd been invincible.
Until they'd found Rodney's body. Crushed underneath the engine room ceiling. Limp and lifeless as he was carried out of the wreckage, his face unrecognisable because of the wounds and clotted blood. John might even have believed it wasn't him. How could it? Rodney McKay had survived so much. Why not this?
But later that night, he'd studied him closer. He'd felt the cold skin, the now stiff limbs, and had washed off the worst of the dried blood. Even with his wounds, it was all Rodney. Stupid, brilliant Rodney, who – as it turned out – had worked with Sam to save them…and then sacrificed himself to save Sam.
That was when denial turned to bargaining. That was when the truth – slowly, achingly – began to sink in. They were stranded. They were broken. They were dying.
And alone at the top was John.
It was the closest he'd come to hyperventilation. Shaking next to Rodney's body, the silent sobs had consumed him. Every time he thought he'd gotten it back under control, he'd spot another feature that was so intrinsically Rodney and the gasping continued. He'd gritted his teeth, fisted his hands, even turned away from the sight, but nothing had helped. Eventually, he'd stumbled away, across the perimeter and into the cold autumn night where time and distance finally numbed him.
After that, loneliness had overwhelmed him, even with all those people around him. For some reason, it'd drawn him to Sam's bedside when everyone else had fallen asleep. In her unconscious state, she'd looked cold and vulnerable, and John couldn't help wonder if that was what Rodney had seen when he'd pushed her underneath a console before the crash: someone to protect.
The image didn't fit with the last memories John had of Sam while awake. She was strong. Maybe stronger than him. Tougher, in a sense. Despite all he'd seen, all he'd experienced, he would always fall short of the kind of wisdom she'd shown in the past six months. Compared to her, he was the perpetual runner-up - always the one who never quite measured up. Story of his life.
So, when she finally woke up, he was happy. He could eventually pass on the burden and instead assume the support position that he'd grown comfortable with; that he was good at. It was easier. No need to think, to feel. He could just do his duty and be done with it. No more need for friends. No more need for family.
It took a while before he realised it was too late. That he'd already waded in too deep. That Sam – somehow, sometime - had snuck under his skin and given him something to protect.
Given him purpose.
Nature had already claimed this town. Birds and animals had replaced the humans that'd disappeared - most likely in a Wraith culling - and the boundary between the human domain and nature was broken. It wasn't uncommon to suddenly see a deer-like creature exit the open door of a house that'd been abandoned for years, or to find a bird's nest in the rafters or the fireplace.
Still, John and the others' presence over the past two weeks had disturbed the once tranquil circle of life. Whenever his feet turned him down the ghost town's main street, following the animal track that'd beaten down the waist-tall grass, the animals fled and the life that'd returned to this place was gone once more.
John tried not to let it sink in. Most days it worked, but today was special. Today, everything set him on edge; weighed him down; threatened to pull him straight into the abyss. He could feel it on the edge of his consciousness like a steady pressure that grew denser each day.
Rather than submit the others to his foul mood, he'd wandered off immediately after breakfast, all the while trying to ignore the silent stares he'd felt fixated on his back. Usually, walking helped, but today each step just pulled up memories: Broken worlds, missing communities, Wraith feeding on his friends, Asurans taking down the Apollo, Rodney's stiff and cold body, Sam white-faced and weak in bed, her eyes trailing after him as Doc Thomas forced him out of the room—
John gritted his teeth, feeling them crunch with the pressure. Annoyed, he pushed his muscles harder and stalked down the path until the numbness he sought finally came over him.
A short while later, ignoring the warmth of the sun, John entered the seventh house on the left side of the main street. The floorboards creaked under his weight, emphasising the stillness around him and the lack of reaction; no one drove him off their porch as he penetrated the privacy of their home.
It didn't take him long to find what he wanted. A dusty chest was pushed up against the wall next to the cold fireplace, elaborate spider webs formed along the bottom.
John's exhale was heavy, no trace of humour in it. "I'm sorry."
No one replied as he opened the chest and began to rummage in the layers of clothing that lay within. Most of it was thick and woollen, which made him grimace. It'd be autumn back home. He didn't need the reminder. Not now. Not today.
Thankfully, there were no children's clothes in the chest. Although, maybe that was sad in itself. When John looked around the room, he could see the love that'd been here. Two sets of plates and cups on one side of the table, an open sewing box and a pile of handkerchiefs on the other. A heavy cloak hanging on the back of the front door. A well-organised kitchen with colourful dishcloths and oven mittens, now dusty and paled by penetrating sunlight.
His fist clenched around the thick material in his hand and John forced his eyes away, focusing on the task ahead of him.
Towards the bottom of the chest, his hand grasped thinner and softer material. He grabbed it and pulled it out of the pile of clothes on top of it. Shaking it out, he saw it was a linen shirt, the threads a mix of coarse and fine; a semi-formal dress shirt of some kind.
Sighing again, John said, "I'm sorry," to the empty room, and put the shirt aside for later. Then he delved into the chest again, pulling out a pair of trousers next. Both items of clothing seemed a bit too big for him, but it didn't matter. It was better than the clothes he already wore, which sported large tears and sticky spots in it after the previous week's trek across empty, war-ravaged planets.
After changing clothes, however, John stared at the tattered pieces he'd left in a messy pile on the floor, and at the disturbed trails of dust he'd left behind on the wooden floorboards. Then he looked around the living room again; at the careful, even thoughtful, placement of items that made no sense to John, but probably meant the world to whoever had lived here.
Someone had maintained this place well; had loved it. It wasn't just a house. It was a home.
And suddenly, the tears were there.
Light touches ran across the jagged scars on his back, ghosting his skin and making it tingle pleasantly all over. Cocking his head to the side, John looked over his shoulder at Sam. "That's not exactly helping me relax."
Sam smirked. "Behave, John."
"Is Daddy being bad?" From the spot in front of the fireplace, David looked up from his toys with the sort of innocent wonder that always made Sam burst out laughing.
"Very," Sam said as she picked up the jar of ointment from the kitchen table and dipped her fingers in it. John only rolled his eyes, which turned to a groan when Sam's fingers began to knead the ointment into his bruised shoulders.
"What did you do?" David stood up with his wooden puddle jumper in hand and approached them inquisitively.
"Your mom's joking, kiddo." John winced as Sam hit a particularly tense spot, sucked his breath in, and then let it out with a drawn-out exhale. The ointment was already starting to work its magic, warming up his muscles and forcing them to relax. "I'm always at my best behaviour."
"Nearly always," Sam added and jabbed a pressure point for good measure. At his groan, she chuckled and he made sure to glare back at her with the promise of revenge.
"Does it hurt?" With big round eyes, David walked around to see what his mother was doing, and John could feel his little fingers start probing his back just below where Sam was working out the kinks.
"Nah," John said, smiling a little. "Just a little stiff from the hunt. This is helping me get better."
"Oh. Okay. I wanna do that, too."
"Just a second, sweetie," Sam said patiently, rubbing John's muscles with the rest of the ointment in her hands. "Alright, come here."
She lifted David so that he could sit on the edge of the kitchen table, and he put his little toy Jumper next to the jar of ointment. Seconds later, John could feel his small hands attempt to do what Sam had done previously, though his pressure was much lighter and gentler than Sam's had been.
Still, the whole thing made John smile. David's rubbing – well, maybe slapping was a better word – didn't manage to ease his muscles, but it didn't matter. This is what it felt like to be loved.
To be happy.
"By the way, John, the privy pit's getting full again. We'll have to empty it out."
John groaned. Talk about killing the perfect image. "You mean I have to empty it out."
"Should be piece of cake for such a strong and handsome guy like yourself," Sam said and leaned down to kiss the side of his head.
He could just feel her grin on his skin and tilted his head to glare at her. "I should've known you had some ulterior motive when you offered to give me a massage."
Sam, however, just grinned and limped away towards the kitchen, cane in hand, to turn a boiling pot of water away from the fire.
John turned with her, which suddenly caused David to slap his shoulder. "Daddy, behave! You must sit still."
Sam, predictably, laughed out loud.
"Jeez, everyone's so bossy today." Rolling his eyes, John half-smirked and settled back in the chair to let David continue his not-so-effective massage. "All right, kiddo. Do your magic. Make Daddy better again."
John was smiling when Ronon found him a while later. Sitting by the kitchen table, needle and thread in hand, he was fixing the holes in his old clothes as best as he could. There was something oddly comforting by it, reminding him of happier times when one of his primary concerns had been getting David to put on all his clothes – and keep them on; the kid was seemingly more warm-blooded than either of his parents.
Ronon's intrusion, however, broke the spell. "Where'd you go?"
Pulling the needle back and forth, John grimaced. He'd known the issue of yesterday would come up. It always did. Rather than responding with anger, though, he resigned immediately; he supposed that was progress.
"Harmony's planet."
He didn't need to elaborate. It wasn't the first time in the past few weeks that he'd stormed off to the castle ruins there to cool off after they'd first visited the planet and found it empty. He knew Ronon liked to keep track, though. Ever since the Daedalus' crash seven years ago, he'd insisted upon strength in numbers.
Now was no different; John could see the reminder in the Satedan's eyes. If they were to get home, they would only do so together. The things they'd seen around Pegasus so far had only strengthened that belief, and John didn't really disagree. He was just too wound up in things that shouldn't matter right now: thinking too much, feeling too much; unable to control it like he should.
He knew despair was a soldier's worst enemy and here he was – wallowing in it. The so-called leader.
Breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, John focused on the repair work in his hands. For each stitch, it got easier to breathe. For each pull of the needle, his pulse slowed, his mind cleared, and the overpowering sense of failure eased up.
"We'll be training with Mick later." Ronon's voice was lower now, almost hushed, as if he sensed the tentative tranquillity of the moment that John fought so hard to achieve. "Could use a hand."
John's ministrations stilled. He wanted to say, "Not sure I'd be wanted," but it felt so childish to say it out loud. After all, he was supposed to be a hardened veteran, someone who'd been through this before, who led by example rather than superficial words.
Instead, he was this. The weak man. The pathetic man. The one who couldn't even do right by his—
"It's okay to be angry with him, John. With all of them, really."
That voice again. Sneaking under his skin. Penetrating deeper than anyone else had gone before, refusing to respect the walls he'd put up.
"It's okay to miss him too. To be sad. Confused. Even happy, eventually."
John refused to look at her across the fire outside Daedalus's hulk; refused to meet those fiery eyes set in a tired, weakened body; refused to let himself be touched by a woman who looked so vulnerable yet seemed so strong.
He'd handled things so well after that night he'd sat by Rodney's body. He wouldn't allow her to tear down all his hard work. He wouldn't.
"The times Daniel died… I was really angry with him. Even after he came back." She chuckled slightly at the latter. "I broke a vase of his once. Old Egyptian thing. Probably priceless." She paused, a restless rustle breaking the sudden silence. "He just hugged me. Made me realise how I needed that. How I needed him. Which was why I hated him being gone."
John stared deeper into the fire. Tried to ignore the voice and the grip it had on him. Pushed his mind away from here, away from her, but she just reeled him in tighter.
"We're not an island, John," the voice continued. Softly, like it could easily disappear with just a small gust of wind, and damn it if it didn't just breach even deeper beneath his skin. "And we shouldn't be."
"Pretty sure that goes against one thing or other they taught us in the Academy," John muttered.
She chuckled lightly. "I know. But if my experiences have taught me one thing… then frat regs and chain of command is one thing, humanity and life something quite different."
Reluctantly, John looked up to meet her eyes. Those soulful, fiery, piercing eyes, set above a wide, gentle smile that erased the sickness and tiredness from her face. It was like she hadn't woken up from a coma three weeks ago. Instead, she was larger than life, fuelled by something deep and resilient. Something that prevailed.
"Whatever role we might play, we're all human when it comes down to it, John. Warts and all." Sam's eyes softened as they met his, soon followed by a thin hand that snuck out of the furs she'd been wrapped in and then came to restupon his shoulder. "And we're in this together. All of us." Her fingertips dug a little into his skin. "Whatever it takes."
John's eyes blinked as the memory faded from his mind. Sam's voice echoed at the back of his mind, along with a sense of pressure on his shoulders. She'd often clutched them tightly like that, grounding him when he needed it.
Damn, he needed it.
Clearing his suddenly dry throat, John gestured to his needlework. "I'll be there. Just, uh, just gonna finish up here."
"You've improved." Ronon's tone was half serious, half amused. Even though the Satedan had been forced to learn the trade by necessity, he still found the entire concept of Atlanteans sewing their own clothes comical. After all, in his eyes they'd all been just a bunch of people who got all the basic necessities (and luxuries) handed to them on a silver platter with barely any effort on their part. Seven years on Terra Nova hadn't removed that idea entirely from his mind.
Chortling unexpectedly, John eyed the lines of stitching he'd completed already. He knew Sam would've agreed. She was terrible at this, even after all the amount of practising she'd had in the past seven years, leaving it for him to fix all of David's torn pants and sweaters.
At least her cooking had improved. Although, he suspected she still snuck out bits and pieces from Sarah's kitchen and proclaimed it as her own work…
"I'll take your word for it," John said out loud, a smirk crossing his lips. He paused again and looked up at Ronon, hesitating. "Thanks."
It was more than just gratitude for the compliment.
Ronon knew that and shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal. He always did that and maybe he was right. After all, he'd lived through more than the rest of them. He knew that the only thing that mattered, was to keep going. To stay alive. All those other things…dwelling on the past…arguing about semantics…well, they didn't matter right now. There wasn't much they could do about them anyway.
They could, however, refuse to lie down. They could fight back.
And do their damnedest to get back home.
Despite the short amount of time that'd passed so far since their escape, John knew he would never get used to this. The quiet ghost towns, the barren wastelands: they were just proof that Atlantis had screwed up royally seven years ago and that the humans of Pegasus were paying the consequences.
Whole civilisations gone with only these ghost towns to testify to their existence, and even those were slowly being worn down by time and consumed by nature. In a hundred years or so, they'd be completely gone. Without fanfare or resistance.
"Damn, it's so quiet." Though they were hushed, Ramirez's words sounded abnormally loud, echoing down the town's main street and ricocheting between buildings that looked broken and worn-down in the twilight.
"I keep expecting the Headless Hunter or something," Durani added in a whisper, to which Thompson gave a slightly strained chuckle.
"Stay frosty."
It was all John could say, really. The place was getting to him, disabling the sense of humour he usually turned to in times like these. Up ahead, Ronon stood quietly, waiting for them to catch up. His head was on a swivel, peering slowly around at their surroundings with the kind of attentiveness that made John tense.
"Hold," he told the others beneath his breath and moved ahead to join up with Ronon as the others crouched down in the tall grass that'd already overtaken the street. "Sitrep?"
Ronon paused, his head cocked slightly to the side. "We're not alone."
Tensing, John looked around carefully, trying not to appear too observant. "Survivors?"
"Not human," Ronon growled lowly.
It spurred John into action. With quick hand signals, he told the others to take cover and watched them enter one of the buildings that seemed decently defensible. Ramirez stayed behind, keeping a lookout until John was also inside.
"I'm gonna take a look around," Ronon said gruffly, moments before he took off down a side street with nothing but a makeshift spear and knife in hand.
Knowing what Ronon was up to, John didn't waste time protesting. He hurried over to the building where the others had taken cover and quickly went inside, followed soon thereafter by Ramirez. Within a minute, he'd gotten an approximate idea of the building's layout and started giving out orders.
"Thompson, Ramirez, cover the ground floor windows. Hutchinson, Durani, you've got upstairs, both back and front. Grayson and I will cover the back entrance down here. Stay in cover unless someone tries to break in."
"Is it humans, sir?" Thompson asked as she moved a table out of the way and hunkered down in the corner of the room.
"No," John said simply and no one asked further questions. They knew the score. Armed with only makeshift weapons that served best in close quarters combat, the only sure way they'd get out of this alive was to escape detection. The other way was to throw caution to the wind and attack up close and personal against a species that specialised in that sort of thing.
It was clear which one was preferable.
John couldn't think about that, though. With his broken arm, he was practically useless unless he got in a lucky strike. Which was why he crouched down in an ambush position next to the back door and insisted Grayson take the other side, the one that'd give him the cover of the door if it opened.
Then, knife in hand, all they could do was wait. Pulse slowing to a steady beat, John listened to the low sounds of shuffling as everyone got into position. The adrenaline flowing through his veins enhanced his senses, making everything seem twice as loud or clear.
Soon though, all he could hear was Grayson's breathing. Outside, there was nothing. No animal sounds, no human sounds, and nothing in between.
Just as John thought the ghost town might've gotten to them, however, there was a loud roar that could only belong to Ronon. Not a roar of pain, but of attack, and John tensed in anticipation, listening intently. The roar gave way to grunts and sounds of combat that grew louder and louder as Ronon and his enemy came closer to the building.
"Main street," Thompson whispered just loud enough for John to hear. "Oh God."
"Quiet," John hissed, even as every cell in his body was crying for him to bolt over to the front of the house and come to Ronon's rescue.
Another yell, more scuffling, but no sounds of Wraith stunners. John squeezed the knife in his hand tighter; sweat beginning to trickle down the back of his neck. His broken arm ached painfully.
"Man's an animal," Ramirez whispered, and in the dimness, John could see the sergeant was grinning.
The floor boards above creaked with movement as Durani and Hutchinson shifted, and John thought he heard a slight chuckle, but ignored it and focused on the area right outside his door.
And then, before he knew it, all was silent again. Until heavy steps walked up the front of the house and the door opened.
Covered in some kind of whitish fluid, spear and knife in hand, Ronon gave them all a feral grin. "Still alive."
Outside in the street, a Wraith commander lay sprawl-eagled on the ground. John bumped him with the sole of his shoe before looking back at Ronon with a slight smirk.
"All right, Chewie. Keep a lookout while we see what we can salvage from this place." Shaking his head slightly in amusement, John stared at the others. They were smirking and grinning too, elated by this small yet important win. John hated to break that mood. "Quick salvage, then we better scramble. Doubt this guy is left all on his lonesome for long."
"All due respect, sir," Ramirez said with a cheeky grin. "So long as we've got Yoda here, I think we're okay."
Ronon grimaced. "Now I'm a Jedi?"
John clapped the big guy on the shoulder. "Maybe better than being a hairy alien."
The peace of mind he'd gained in town began to slip away once John heard the laughter coming from their camp site, which they'd set up outside of town out of respect for those who'd once lived there.
At the back of his mind, he was elated at the sound, realising that he hadn't heard it in a while. Seemed like Grayson had been right: even with the sense of urgency calling them to action, they'd clearly needed a break. There'd been too much darkness around them these past few months; too many dead ends in their search for human survivors and a way home. They needed to feel alive again. To put their minds on something different.
However, rather than stay pleased with the sound of the others' laughter, John's stomach knotted again, mixed with a solid dose of trepidation.
I should've realised earlier, he thought with a grimace. I shouldn't have pushed them on.
Uneasy, John stopped right outside the campsite and leaned against a tree trunk, observing the scenes played out before him.
Thompson and Ronon stood a couple of steps behind Ramirez, twirling their knives as they waited their turn in what appeared to be a knife-throwing contest. Durani and Grayson were cooking something delicious in a pot over the campfire, the former grinning at the others' antics and the latter shaking his head slightly in resignation and amusement.
And sitting on a rock about halfway between Ramirez and the target tree, Hutchinson wore a tired smile; the kind Sam had given John seven years ago. The parallel wasn't lost on him.
"You throw like a sissy, Ramirez," Hutchinson said just as said sergeant flung his knife across the sunlit forest clearing. It burrowed deep into the trunk of a tree fifteen feet away, earning an immediate whoop from Ramirez.
"Who cares if it works, right?" Ramirez sauntered over to the tree, pulled out the knife with one powerful tug, and turned back with a cocky grin in Hutchinson's direction. With an extra elaborate flick, he flipped the knife up into the air and caught it again.
Thompson and Durani laughed out loud while Hutchinson shook his head in feigned disapproval, the smile on his otherwise drawn and worn face widening. Watching from the shadows, John smiled too. It'd been too long since he'd seen Hutchinson like that. The sight was heartening.
"You wanna end up a hedgehog, Miguel? Get outta the way," Thompson called out, preparing her throw.
"I'm goin', I'm goin'!" Taking his sweet time, Ramirez stepped out of range of Thompson's knife and watched as she flung it down the clearing. It almost hit right on top of his mark, embedding itself deeper than his.
"Hah!" Doing a little victory dance, Thompson gathered her knife and went to gloat to Ramirez in the form of a spontaneous song and jig, to which the rest of them laughed and called out similar teases for Ramirez to join in.
There was something so familiar about the whole thing that John, before he knew it, let out a chuckle of his own.
It was only when the noise died down that he realised they'd all heard him. Thompson and Durani looked caught off-guard, while Ramirez's eyes narrowed slightly, almost warily. Grayson, though, gave John a wide smile, and Ronon nodded in approval.
It was Hutchinson who broke the silence.
"Sir! You're just in time." The sergeant grinned as he gestured to Thompson and Ramirez. "Yoda's about to put both of these losers to shame."
At that, it seemed like the awkwardness of the moment just dissipated. Without missing a beat, Ramirez and Thompson gave Hutchinson scandalous glares and doled out a healthy dose of banter that only made the man's grin grow wider; looking as if he'd never been more alive than right this moment.
Soon, all of them wore similar expressions, including a reluctant John.
"You joining in, sir?" Durani asked John, indicating the knife-throwing contest.
John automatically looked to Grayson, who only shrugged. "You got a healthy right arm last time I checked."
"Looks like I am," John told Durani, smirking slightly. He couldn't help scratch along his casted arm, though, which felt stiff and achy after holding up the sewing earlier.
On the other side of the clearing, Ronon moved with lightning speed, flinging the knife before the other three contestants had registered it. Predictably, it hit better than either of the previous two.
"Best out of three," Ronon said as he handed the knife to John hilt-first.
With long-lost but familiar bravado, John smirked. "I should claim my prize already."
Outside the cave, the winds were howling and possibly some of the winter beasts too by the sound of it. It brought back memories of similar nights spent in caves along the trail from Daedalus' wreckage to the south where they'd wound up settling down.
The laughter, however, was different. It was loud, raucous – thanks to Ramirez – and liberating. John wasn't the kind to get all mushy, but there was something about that laughter, this camaraderie, that created a warmth of its own apart from the roaring campfire. It wasn't quite like being huddled skin-to-skin with Sam in front of the fireplace or underneath the furs in their bed, nor was it like those missions with Rodney, Teyla and Ronon where they'd camped outside and spent a few hours sharing stories and anecdotes.
This was something different. Hunters brought together to wait out the storm, brothers-in-arms spending most of their days together and away from home, losing perhaps some inhibitions – again, thanks to Ramirez – and generally bonding in an entirely different way than John was used to. Perhaps it was the sense of living on the edge, of foreboding danger, which was a sensation that accompanied them constantly on this planet and especially on the hunt. After all, they were far from the creature comforts and security of Earth. A simple cut or the wrong thing to eat, and they could die.
"Man, Ramirez, you're so full of shit," Thompson snorted, bringing her cup of Ramirez' moonshine to her lips. "I bet half those stories you tell is just pure BS."
"Second that," John added, smirking above the rim of his own cup. The strong alcohol trickled down his throat, heating up his insides.
"Really, sir? You too?" Ramirez glared at him with mock fury, then started towards the cup in John's hand. "That's it, pendejo, I want my moonshine back."
With a quick jerk, John kept the cup away from him, chuckling. Hutchinson and Thompson came to his rescue, wrestling Ramirez back until the three of them rolled on the ground like someone fresh out of the Academy. Some of the other hunters only shook their heads in exasperation.
John's chuckle became a grin and he glanced at Ronon on the other side of the fire. The Satedan just rolled his eyes.
This was how it was supposed to be, though. No more simply surviving. No more simply keeping one's head above water. This was how they were supposed to live.
Predictably, Ronon won the knife-throwing contest. Not that it mattered, of course. Something far more important than that had been achieved.
"It's good to see them like this," John said quietly as he watched Ramirez, Thompson and Durani cheer Hutchinson on in his hand-to-hand fight with Ronon. Although the man was clearly out of shape and easily exhausted, he still got up each time Ronon flipped him onto the ground. John admired that.
Seated next to him, Grayson hummed in agreement and ladled another bowl of food for John. "Hope's a powerful thing. Pain too, if harnessed the right way."
Accepting the bowl, John didn't respond. Even though the edge had dulled from the laughs and friendliness earlier, he still felt raw like a partially exposed nerve. And it didn't help that Sam's old words rattled around his head like a broken record.
"We might've been dealt another poor hand, but it doesn't mean we're losing." Grayson leaned forward to stir the coals with an iron poker they'd taken from the town, then added another log to the fire. "Just means we'll have to rethink our strategies. Find another way."
John shifted his stare from Hutchinson to the bowl in his hands. Without really wanting to, he asked, "You still think we'll get home?"
"One way or another," Grayson said with an almost matter-of-fact shrug. "This is a big galaxy, and we've experienced stranger things. Who knows, maybe it's just about dialling the right stargate at the right time and we'll somehow end up back in time as the wormhole passes through a solar flare."
Sam had experienced that, John recalled. However, the memory of her story didn't stay for long. Instead, his uneasiness grew once more – worsened by the strength of Grayson's words and the training scene on the other side of the clearing.
Hutchinson was on the ground again, only this time he had difficulty getting up without Ronon's helping hand. Once he was up, though, the others were there to slap his back and bump his shoulder teasingly to see if he unbalanced. It wasn't really that different from earlier, but even so… John's appetite disappeared again.
"John?"
Grayson sounded worried. John didn't really realise why until he noticed that he'd actually stood up, upending the contents of his bowl all over the ground. And his hands were shaking. Trembling. Like they didn't know whether to punch something or run away.
"I—" The words failed him. A sense of urgency filled him. A feeling that time was running out. He looked around almost wildly, distantly picking an escape route.
"John…" Grayson stood up too, hands held up in the universal sign of pacification. "It's okay. Just breathe. You're all right."
Breathe? He'd half forgotten how. His lungs were tightening, like that night at Rodney's side. Why it happened now, he had no idea. He just had to get out. Had to—
Grayson's hand landed on his shoulder. John nearly flung it off. When he next looked for his exit, he found the others staring at him, their training abandoned. Panic clenched his throat.
Hutchinson broke the silence. "You heading out, sir? Want some company?"
John half wanted to laugh. The guy was barely able to stand on his own two feet without Ramirez to support him. Taking a hike should've been the furthest from his mind, and yet… Mick wasn't giving up.
Not like him.
"I'm sorry." The words tore past his lips. They sounded gruff, like a dismissal, but John realised it was only to cover up the lump forming in his throat.
Hutchinson's eyes softened, like Sam's had done. Yet another parallel. "You don't need to apologise, sir."
"I've let you down." The words tumbled out before John could hold them back. His eyes were blurring too. Unravelling. Finally finding release.
"What are you talking about, sir?" Durani asked as she took a step toward him, her dark eyes wide. "You've kept us together."
"You've kept us going," Thompson added.
"We don't forget, Sheppard," Ramirez said, his tone firm. "Whether it's Terra Nova, that Wraith ship, or out here, we've been through shit. All of us. But in spite of all that, you've kept our heads on straight. Given us a place to go. Something to do. Well, Yoda helped, I guess." The last was said with a grin cast in Ronon's direction, to which the Satedan simply snorted.
The others smiled too. Easily. Honestly.
"We're in this together, sir." Hutchinson pushed away from Ramirez and wobbled slightly before regaining his balance, exposing how skinny and frail his body had gotten during the enzyme withdrawal process. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as if simply standing still was a challenge. "Always have been, always will."
The lump thickened in John's throat, his eyesight getting blurrier. Sam's words echoed again. Stronger and more relentless. Nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing to do but accept it.
"Thank you," he said hoarsely, not sure he deserved it. They made him sound like a hero-like character and he wasn't. They were.
Neither of them seemed to realise that, of course. Instead, they just shrugged and returned to what they'd done previously: Durani, Ramirez, Thompson and Ronon to training in hand-to-hand combat, Grayson to stoking the fire.
Hutchinson was the only one to break the mould, hobbling over and sinking down on his sleeping mat next to the campfire. He wiped a hand over his face, removing sweat. Feeling somewhat uneasy, but for different reasons, John poured him a cup of water and handed it to him.
"Cheers, sir," Hutchinson smiled and gulped it down.
John's smile was strained as he returned to his seat. "No need for 'sirs', Mick. Think I've told you that before."
"Old habits." Hutchinson shrugged, then exhaled deeply as he leaned back on his hands as if to catch his breath. After a moment, he stared at John again, a different kind of smile on his lips. A sadder, yet kinder one. "We'll see them again, sir. You told me that."
John's neck tensed.
He'd almost forgotten about that.
"Sometimes, I go to sleep and expect to wake up to find this is nothing more than a dream."
The words were spoken softly, almost to the point where they were inaudible. John turned to its speaker, heaviness permeating every layer of his body as the words hit home beneath the comfortable cloud of numbness that he used as a shield.
In a moment of clarity from the enzyme withdrawal, Hutchinson's eyes were full of tears. "I need to get home, sir. I need to see them again. I-I can't die here."
"You won't." John's response was automatic by now. During their two months of captivity, he'd seen a quarter of his people – his family – succumb to the enzyme withdrawal. A few had made it, but the recovery had been hell. "You're gonna get through this, Mick. You're gonna survive. The Doc knows his stuff. And then we'll see them again."
Hutchinson sobbed at that, his body shaking violently against the bonds that kept him tied up to a tree until the withdrawal had passed. It was too harrowing to watch. Not that a man shed tears, but that someone as strong, calm, and loving as Hutchinson was breaking down and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
And John, in a moment of weakness, turned away from the sight.
No one said a word about it. Perhaps they felt the same. John didn't dare look into their eyes. Instead, self-consciously, he reached out his healthy hand to put it upon Hutchinson's shoulder, gripping it tightly. The man's sobs intensified for a second, then, after what seemed a very long time, he began to ease down and slumped heavily against his bonds, asleep.
Only then did John really look at him. Like the rest, Hutchinson had lost a lot of weight, had shadows under his eyes, and sported some now-old bandages to cover the physical wounds acquired during their escape. His beard had grown out of control, his hair fell below his ears, and there was more grey and white in those strands than before.
"Let's stay here for a while."
John spoke the words heavily. Since the escape a week prior, there'd been a sense of urgency to get away quickly and to find their way back home. They'd only stayed a moment on that first planet before moving on to another in order to lose any Wraith pursuit. After that, they'd constantly been on the move, high from their escape and running on fumes of adrenaline. There was an advantage in that. After all, idleness was a soldier's ultimate enemy. Too much time on their hands and it wouldn't be the bullets they'd be scared of, but the thoughts they normally suppressed.
But now, John's broken arm ached. Scratch that, his whole body ached, and he wondered if this was how Edmond Dantès had felt upon his long-sought escape from Château d'If. Dantès, however, had at least known his way home. Without a ship to reach Terra Nova, they were stuck. They didn't have a choice.
"We'll need better shelter," said Ronon, looking around the barely-lit forest clearing and up at the gathering clouds. "Looks like rain."
"Think I saw a hill not far off earlier." Ramirez gestured behind him with his thumb. "Could be caves there."
"Any freshwater nearby?" asked Durani.
"Yeah, think I saw a stream."
"Should be some medicinal herbs and plants around here," said Grayson quietly. "I'll go out in the morning and have a look."
"Could do with some more weapons," Thompson muttered, twirling a makeshift spear in her hands. "Maybe see if that town can yield us anything."
How easily they followed him. Without question, without a word, they did what they had to do. Just like they'd done seven years ago when Daedalus had crashed on Terra Nova and John had been the only CO standing at the time.
It was too much. John's eyes stung and the tears ran down his face before he could stop them. And all that echoed inside his mind, was:
I need to get them home. Whatever it takes.
The stream clucked and trickled past his feet without a care to the hour of the day. Far up on the night sky, the clouds had finally cleared and all John could see were the stars. The wrong stars.
Still no Pyxia. Still no ship. Still a war-ravaged galaxy playing on old feelings of injustice, duty and responsibility. Overshadowing those, however, were the twenty-eight lines that had joined the original seventy-six.
The very thought made John's healthy hand fist, but there was nothing he could do about it. Time didn't care about his seemingly petty problems.
With a kick, John's lines in the dirt were wiped out, just like the barren wastelands left behind after Asuran bombardment. Then afterwards, he felt as empty as the house he'd visited earlier that day.
No wonder his mind was in turmoil; too many competitive emotions and duties. A storm would've been welcome, but the universe wouldn't grant him that either.
When John heard the familiar soft treads behind him, he groaned. "What?"
Out of the shadows, Ronon came and crouched down next to the stream, water skin in hand. He spent a long time to refill the water skin and drink from it. Only when he'd let it hang in his hand for a little while, did he speak his mind.
"How long have you known?"
John looked up to meet Ronon's dark eyes in the night gloom. "Known what?"
"About Sam. The child."
A stir rose up beneath the void. John's limbs went deathly still. "What—?"
"You're counting the days." Ronon shifted in his seat like a rock suddenly dissolving into some different shape, then gestured to the disturbed earth at John's feet and the broken lines that'd escaped his carnage. His voice was low, almost accusatory, "We've not been gone that long."
The urge to wipe away the surviving lines to hide the evidence caused John's feet to twitch in response, giving him away. Cursing, he clenched his healthy fist instead, letting the nails dig into his skin and bring him some semblance of control.
"Some time…" John muttered, his teeth gritted slightly. He knew Ronon well enough by now that there was no point denying it, and there was a small, pervasive part of him that felt lighter, almost. "Never had it confirmed, but…" He sighed heavily, unclenching his fist. "There were signs."
Ronon didn't immediately respond. Instead, he turned back to the stream and looked down at the glittering water, his expression troubled. For some reason, it made John tense; it was the first time he'd seen the Satedan unsettled in a very long time.
When Ronon finally met his eyes, it was with a touch of accusation that made John's innards feel heavier than ever. His words, however, betrayed nothing of his underlying subtext of 'you should've told me'.
"She's strong," Ronon said gruffly. "Proved that last time."
John hesitated, his insides churning uncomfortably. "And what if this time, she's not?"
That was the burning question that'd been pressing down on his mind for the past three months, and which he'd struggled not to bring into existence. And now a terrible, overpowering emptiness soared up from the abyss, and his pulse built in momentum until blood pounded in his ears and his breathing quickened. He became someone else, someone he didn't recognise; falling into a role he'd never been in before.
And it terrified him.
When Ronon answered, his voice was solemn. "We have to forget them for now. Focus on the mission. Stay frosty."
John knew that. Of course, he did: you could take the man out of the soldier, but not the soldier out of the man. Even seven years as a non-combatant couldn't change that, and yet…
This was different than when he'd gone to Bosnia or Afghanistan or even those first few years on Atlantis. There was no military hierarchy to support them or those at home. They were operating on their own power, without back-up, and that made them vulnerable. If John and his team died, there was no one to carry the message home. No one to pick up the pieces.
Except…they might think you're already dead.
That thought made him nauseous.
"Sheppard," Ronon called, snapping him out of his stupor. The Satedan's eyes glittered in the darkness, his jaw set. "We're still alive."
Still alive. John blinked. Still… He opened his mouth—
But before he could say anything else, the air snapped with a sudden, deadly familiar,gun shot.
Author's note March 2018: So, I'm still alive too, just like these guys. I've been wrestling with this story for a long while, and even if I know where I'm headed, creating the path there has been harder than expected. One reason is that there was something about this chapter that I wasn't happy with, and something I couldn't put my finger on. Now I've edited it - some minor, some major things - and hopefully that'll jar something loose. My plan for 2018 is to get back into this story. Like before, I'm not going to promise anything, however, because real life can be unpredictable. The only promise I can maintain is that this story will be finished one day. No matter how long it takes.