A/N: This chapters a dark one. Bewaaare.
Ch. 4
He hung in the dark like being suspended over an abyss. There was rock below him, rock above him, rock everywhere but it might as well have been in his imagination. There was never sound except for a hollow hum like the echo of a seashell or an exhaling breath that never stopped. If there really was something breathing, he couldn't feel it. The air was still, sitting on him like a dead weight, cold and clammy. When sound did come, no matter how small, it was sharp, painful, making his skin twitch and his heart jerk.
A foot scraped over rock. The sound was abrupt and harsh, shooting off into the darkness like a cat chasing after a mouse. Except the mouse was right here, all trussed up for the taking, half-naked and freezing. He'd been naughty. The overseers didn't abide naughtiness.
Hot, sour breath tumbled down John's neck and over his shoulder.
"The darkness isn't your friend." The voice didn't echo, too deep and too quiet. The darkness wasn't the overseers' friend either, which was why they wore the equivalent of night-vision goggles.
There was a buzz, a crack, and a thin sliver of hot pain slicing through John's back. Sheppard arched and let lose a broken scream. Hot blood slithered over the cooled blood already caking his skin. He could smell it, metallic and sharp, mixing with the oder of rot that always clung to the unseen walls.
The sour breath returned. The knobbed end of the whip handle traveled a straight course down his spine. John shivered, his skin tightening and gut clenching.
"Think about why you're here," the deep voice breathed. John already had and didn't give a damn. A clammy, warm hand pressed against his chest and started moving down toward his stomach. He freaked, he always freaked even after losing count of how many times they'd played this game. He twisted his body, kicked out, thrashing his feet into empty air while snarling like the enraged beast they always treated him as. Laughter bubbled from more than one throat, sharp, constant, and echoing. Hands touched him from in front and behind, down his back, against his chest, across his ribs. He thrashed, bucked, swung, and spat profanities.
The overseers laughed louder. Then came the snikt and clack of his manacles unlocking. His wrists slipped free for his body to plummet into the shallow abyss where his body crumpled on the hard, uneven floor. Bone smashed into rock and John cried out. There was another click. Amber light spilled down from above. John squinted against it, blinking away the flashes and pain until a face came into focus.
Not a face, a skull still retaining scraps of parchment dry skin. Another skull, shriveled, barely decayed, more skulls, bodies, bones surrounding John in a nest of rot.
Sheppard screamed.
Then he gasped. Darkness replaced the light and the skulls. He felt a hand on his back too small, warm, delicate and gentle to be the overseers. It moved rubbing steady circles between his shoulder blades.
"Shhh. John, it is all right," Teyla whispered in his ear. "It is all right. You are safe here. Go back to sleep, you are safe."
John moved enough to press into that hand, focusing on the touch and the motions until the remnant of the dreams thinned and faded like cobwebs. He dropped back onto the solid ground. He didn't want to sleep, was afraid to sleep. His body didn't care, so he centered his world around Teyla's ministrations as he had done since he'd first come to realize they'd found him, and succumbed to sleep, praying he didn't dream.
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Giana and Rial had been true to their word and then some. They'd released the team, even giving them back Ronon's gun and what bags of supplies they could find, even restocking them (all previous supplies having already been consumed, no surprises there) and sent them on their way.
That had been yesterday.
Today was a good day for travel. Cool, moist, foggy, but not cold. They kept off the road while also keeping parallel to it. Walking through the forest was like walking on a carpet of wet sponge. John found it amusing while Rodney just complained under his breath.
"You know," McKay said after a time, breathless. "When we do reach the 'gate, how're we going to contact Atlantis?"
"We don't," John said, also breathless. His throat felt like it was rubbing together. He took the water skin from Teyla's shoulder and swallowed a mouthful before continuing. "We go to an allied world, or the alpha site."
"Think they're still using it?"
John handed the skin back and shrugged. "Won't know until we get there." He coughed. They would get there. If he had to crawl or let Ronon carry him, they would get there.
Sheppard had never considered there could come a time when he would despise his own body. But he did, right now, as it betrayed him over and over. He pushed it to its limits and still couldn't hold out until noon. He always staggered before, so of course the others took it as a cue to take a break, costing them precious hours that could have been spent eating up more distance.
He stumbled now and hissed. "Damn it!"
Teyla was quick to catch his arm and steady him. "It is all right, John. We can take a break."
He shook his head. "No. Not yet."
"Oh no you don't," Rodney snapped. "You are not going to start pushing yourself. It'll make things worse."
"Rodney is right, John," Teyla said, caressing his shoulder consolingly.
Sheppard continued to shake his head. "No, you don't get it. I just tripped. I can go a little further. Next time I trip, we stop. Trust me, please. I'm not pushing it." He wasn't because he wasn't stupid. But, man, he was feeling incredibly useless, like a dead weight that needed to be dragged. The others would beg to differ if he said as much out loud, but they weren't the weak ones of this party. He was, the freakin' team leader who was supposed to be getting them out of this mess.
He was giving into self pity, which was funny considering he'd been doing good about ignoring it up until now. He knew his team wasn't going to leave him behind, so had no intentions of arguing for it.
What surprised him was potentially arguing for it, them listening, and leaving him behind on this world to be found and dragged back to those mines. Any past desire to be left behind wasn't really a desire, just acquiescing to necessity. For the first time in John's life it was to hell with necessity. Either he would go home or die. No more caves, no more darkness...
He stumbled ten minutes later, which was better than three minutes, and caved to an early lunch. Ronon found a dry patch where they could sit leaning against a single, wide-based tree as they tore and gnawed salted meat and dried fruit. The outcasts of the Freemen handled storing provisions, Rial had explained. The smart ones who knew better than to take sides. When the team had left, most of those outcasts had been seen milling about beyond the dark safety of their rooms. Talk about a revolution.
After the minuscule lunch, they dozed until whoever woke first (usually Rodney, today being no exception) woke the rest. They continued on into twilight, pausing for Ronon to find a dry spot, cave, or tree hollow. Tonight it was a dry spot, with the bonus of a few dead shrubs to use as fire wood. They surrounded the fire, keeping the light from extending beyond their circle, and dined on more meat and fruit. They then formed their usual huddle, John between Teyla and Rodney. Teyla had her hand on his side. He'd been surprised from the start that her touch had never bothered him. Easy enough to explain. Her hand was smaller, lighter, a change from the heavy hands that had handled him like an old shoe. Hands that were as calloused as sandpaper, trying to rub the skin off his bones.
John shuddered. Teyla's hand curled into a small fist against his ribs. He didn't want to sleep, not if he was going to dream, but there was no room for fear thanks to exhaustion. Sheppard slipped into unconsciousness, darkness, caves, blood, and pain. He woke with a gasp only to return to unconsciousness when another familiar hand rubbed his back, hesitant, unsteady, but trying.
Rodney. The man needed work on his social skills, but he did try, which was way more than what most people did.
John awoke again to a gray misty morning that was unnaturally silent. No distant sounds, bird calls, or even water dripping from the trees. It was as though someone had hit the mute button on the world. The air was colder, crisper, and even wrapped in a blanket John still shivered. It took a moment for his fogged brain to register that he was alone except for Teyla crouched on the other side of the dead fire.
John lifted his heavy head and blinked. "Teyla?"
Teyla's head snapped around, then her body to move closer to John while staying bent. She put her finger to her lips, raising Ronon's blaster. "Rodney went to relieve himself and did not return. Ronon went to find him"
John's heart lurched. He pushed himself up, squirming the layers of blankets off his back. "What? How long ago?"
"I do not know,"Teyla whispered. "It feels long, but I could be mistaken." She adjusted one of the blankets around John's shoulders. A part of him pricked irately at the coddling but he was a little too busy trying not to panic to care.
A twig snapped reverberating like a gun shot. Teyla and John froze, wide-eyed and terrified.
John swallowed. "Whoever it is, they know we're here."
Teyla nodded. "Ronon! Rodney!"
No answer. John felt the blood drain to his feet. "Maybe we should run."
Teyla nodded again. She grabbed John's arm and hauled him to his feet, the blanket dropping. She kept hold of him and they ran, bent-back, away from their camp. They both glanced back. Seeing no one, Teyla pulled John around and pushed him down into a huddle against a tree.
"Stay there, I will draw them off." She then left.
John scrambled to his feet and took off after her. "Teyla, are you nuts! We need to stay together. Teyla!"
She stayed ahead of him as though running away from him. It was scary, all this separation, this uncertainty. Teyla was panicking, John was sure of it, and she never panicked. Hell, he never panicked. But they'd been scared from the start. Fear of being caught, of pain, of solitude, and thoughts of never seeing home again were turning them into something they were not, reducing them to instincts of survival and even less than that, shoving rational thought aside as though it had no place. John hated it, so focused on that anger to shove back at fear and be the clear-headed one.
Then he tripped, again, falling face-first into the moss. He look up spitting water in time to hear a high-pitched whine and see Teyla stumble, slow, waver, and finally drop.
"Teyla!" John pushed his way back to his feet and ran. He charged without rational thought, without fear. He did not acknowledge the figure dressed in a brown cloak except as a target that needed to be eliminated, because it had hurt Teyla. With a snarl, John plowed into the figure crouching at Teyla's side and knocking it down. He let his fists fly striking flesh and cloth, over and over in a red-hazed fury. He reveled when he felt bone crunch under his fist and hit harder.
The figure under him was stronger. It struck back, just once, giving itself a window of opportunity when John arched back away from the blow. The figure flipped him onto the ground, rolling on top to straddle his stomach. The figure then grabbed him by the throat, squeezing, creating a new distraction. As Sheppard clawed at the hand trying to kill him, the figure's other hand pulled a wooden bludgeon from its belt and struck him across the temple.
Everything shot into black.
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John snapped awake with a gasp to the familiar pain in his shoulders, chest and stomach, and tensed in manically terrified anticipation. He waited five heart beats for the burning sliver of pain tearing his skin, until he finally realized something was missing.
The darkness.
Gray light showed him everything: mossy trees, loam covered earth, and his team-mates on the ground, sitting upright tied to the base of a tree, their chins to their chest unconscious. John's breath caught in a stutter.
"Teyla?" It was hard to talk hanging a foot off the ground, his ribs spread to their limit until he thought they would tear through his skin. "Ronon? Rodney!"
Rodney's head lolled and he moaned but didn't wake up.
Sheppard looked up at the ropes knotted around his hands and securing him to the tree branch. He twisted his body, wriggling his wrists. Bind him and he'd fight. He'd made it a promise and it had turned into instinct. Rational thought was trumped by panic and rage. He lifted his legs and kicked out to jerk his body, pulling against the ropes and the branch. The branch bounced, creaking.
"Come on," John gritted. He kicked again. "Come on!" And again, twisting and writhing harder and frantic until the ropes started tearing the skin of his wrists, and there wasn't much skin to tear.
John curled his lip from his teeth, kicking out, swinging, twisting – thrashing. "Come on! Come on! Come on!" Blood snaked down his arm. Good, lubrication. He needed the lubrication. It had worked before when he'd tried to escape... his first owner or the overseers? He couldn't remember and didn't care. He threw himself back, spinning, swinging, and snarling.
"Sheppard!"
His name. Since when the hell did they ever use his name? He wasn't Sheppard. He was worm, grub, and creatures with names in languages that had no meaning. He was their wild little pet sent to them for their amusement, because they liked watching things squirm.
Sheppard lashed out with his foot to keep them back.
"Sheppard, stop!"
"Colonel!"
"John please, stop!"
Blood soaked into his shirt. Shirt. He wasn't supposed to have a shirt. He felt the ropes begin to loosen, the tree branch bend farther. Just a little more, a little harder. "Come on!"
"John! Stop, please, you are hurting yourself."
A bunch of crap. He didn't feel a thing.
One hand slipped free to leave him dangling by the other. He used the already present momentum to swing his arm and part of his body up to reach the still-bound limb. He resumed thrashing, tugging at the ropes. He was so damn close to freedom that he didn't care how he accomplished it. He just had to be free.
"Come ooooon!"
His fingers bled as he pulled until enough space was achieved for the other wrist to slip free. He fell to the ground in a boneless heap and pain rolled over him like a surging tide. He curled up into an agonized ball and whimpered. He didn't want to open his eyes. He knew what was waiting for him and, just once, he wanted to be dragged away from this place without seeing it.
"John?"
John opened his eyes, forgetful in his moment of shock at hearing his name. No corpses, no skulls, just the pale, terrified faces of his team. Ronon was doing his own squirming trying to break free, while Teyla and Rodney just stared.
Tears rolled down Teyla's cheeks to vanish into her trembling lips. "John?"
John stared at her, bewildered, confused. With a sharp exhale, it hit him like a sack of bricks that he'd been delirious. And he'd been delirious because he'd panicked. He'd never panicked, ever, and it confused him all the more.
"John, please," Teyla begged. "Get up."
John blinked and did as he was told since he didn't know what else he was supposed to be doing. He pushed himself to his knees, grimacing against various pains throbbing through his body. The worst centered at his bleeding wrists, especially the right one. He felt sick, dizzy, tired but also wired, his body shaking and his heart pumping. He needed to get a grip. Something was wrong, there was danger, they needed to get out of here.
John nodded, satisfied with the assessment. He didn't need details, just a handle on the here and now. Looking at his team, the logical course of action was to release them. He shuffled on his knees toward them, reaching out with bloodied hands dripping crimson drops patting softly on the spongy earth. It was the only sound beyond his own harsh breaths.
"My gosh, Sheppard..." Rodney's voice cracked. Sheppard had a feeling it was supposed to come out as an admonishment, but McKay's look of wide-eyed horror didn't let it.
John scooted up next to Teyla and tugged at the ropes securing her hands to the tree. The constant flow of blood was making it difficult to work the knots.
"John," Teyla said. "You must stop the bleeding, there is too much."
John lifted his hands and stared at his wrists. He was bleeding a lot, too much, and it hurt.
"You!"
Sheppard swung around to see a familiar cloak-clad figure standing frozen several feet away. The figure lifted a single hand holding a long wooden bludgeon to point it at John. "How did you get loose!"
"John, run!" Teyla shrieked.
Like hell he was running. He scrambled to position himself in front of Teyla, the nearest target, and placed his feet under him, tensing his calf and thigh muscles in preparation to pounce. The figure saw this, moved in close but not too close, keeping the bludgeon raised as though confronting a rabid animal. "Stay where you are. You move, I cave your skull in."
The voice was husky, either female trying to sound male or a very young male trying to sound like an adult.
"We mean you know harm," Teyla said loudly. "Please, do not hurt him. He is only trying to protect us and he is injured."
Specter – because they were like a specter without face or gender – risked moving a little closer. They didn't seem to be listening, or didn't care. John reached back and placed one hand on Teyla's shoulder, keeping himself aware of where she was and to let specter know he wasn't going anywhere without these people. Specter paced back and forth moving an inch closer each time as though thinking Sheppard wouldn't notice. But he did notice. He wasn't stupid.
Then specter stilled and reach into its cloak with its free hand. Sheppard lifted his head trying to see what was being removed and prepared himself to bolt out of the way in case it was a projectile weapon.
Specter's hand darted fast, emerging then flicking, tossing a cloud of brown powder into Sheppard's face. The powder burned like acid and John howled, lurching back, slapping his hands to his eyes.
Feet pounded over the soft earth and Teyla screeched. "Nooo!"
John felt a hand fist around the collar of his shirt, shoving his back against the tree. He opened his teary-eyes enough to see specter's blurred form raising the bludgeon. John cringed, recoiling against the tree.
"Corla?"
Specter froze for a breath then whipped its head around. "Mother!"
John rubbed frantically at his eyes until the water cleared away enough leaving only a halo of shimmering gray light. He saw a woman through the fine, transparent haze, an old woman thumping the loam with a walking stick. But this wasn't some stooped, frail grandmother steps away from the grave. The woman was short, but stood straight and tall, the walking stick more of a habit to carry around than support. She had raven black hair streaked in iron gray pulled back in a pony-tail, and all wrinkles were situated mostly at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She was dressed like a hunter in a heavy coat minus the plaid, and dark tan trousers. Hanging from her shoulders was a wicked looking crossbow and a sheath of bolts. She tromped up to specter, stopping just a few short feet back, and placed her hand on her hip.
"What do you think you're doing, daughter? I told you to wait for us."
Specter – Corla – jerked John. "This one escaped and was about to help the others. I was stopping him."
The old woman cocked an eyebrow, looked at John, the team, then over at the branch where John had hung. Her eyes rounded over as she took in the blood-stained rope. "Corla, please tell me that you did not suspend him from that tree."
"I had to, mother. There was no room left to tie him with the others and I didn't trust him not to try and escape. He's wild, mad." She yanked back her hood with the hand still holding the bludgeon. "You saw what he did to me."
John's captor could not have been older than twenty, with raven black hair like her mothers and an oval face with a sharp chin. She would have been quite lovely except for the bruises around both eyes stemming from the now misshapen nose.
"He was only protecting me," Teyla said in a cracked voice. "He was frightened, we all were."
"It was self-defense," Ronon growled. "I don't think you can argue with self-defense."
The old woman drummed her fingers against her hip. She looked from the team to the bloody rope, then back to the team. "Corla, release the woman."
Corla balked. "Mother!"
"To tend to the man before he bleeds to death. Do it, now." The old woman turned and it was then Sheppard realized there were others gathered, two more young women with black hair, one older than Corla and the other a teenager, her hair cropped close. Trying to hide behind the older girl was a boy of about eight with a shaved head. Women and children, lovely. Sheppard was going to feel like quite the ass if he had to fight these people.
"Enia," the old woman said. "Fetch the bandages. Pree, bring a bowl of water and a cloth. Hurry, now."
The two girls nodded and hurried off, the boy trotting after. Corla released John in order to pull a knife from her belt. She kept the tip of the bludgeon against his chest as she cut through Teyla's bonds. "Nothing funny now."
John smirked, feeling a little drunk and not in a pleasant way. "If I wanted to try something funny, one of us would be dead."
Corla sawed until the ropes fell free, then scurried back beyond reach. Teyla rubbed her wrists before tugging John closer to her. She took both arms below the abrasions and looked them over. Moisture shimmered iridescent in her eyes. "Oh, John..."
"I'll be all right." The bleeding had already started to slow.
The old woman moved closer with Corla flanking her. The girl's green eyes flashed hot and deadly, her fingers twitching on both weapons. The old woman was calmer, but cautious.
"I must apologize for what my daughter did," she began. "We are not trusting of strangers but there was no reason for the cruelty she showed you." She shot a vicious glare at he daughter. The girl withered, lowering her gaze as well as her arms, just for a heartbeat, before tensing again.
The older woman sighed, returning her gaze to the team, jerking her chin at them. "Your friend saw us this morning as he was relieving himself."
McKay stiffened, looking indignant. "And yet a simple hello hadn't been sufficient. You had to hit me with a poison dart. I was waving at you people. How the hell does waving come across as a hostile action?"
"We are cautious," the old woman said, short and sweet with a hard look. That look melted into something more uncertain, abashed. She turned abruptly, grabbing her daughter by the arm and hauling her just out of ear shot. They argued, low and hissing, pointing rigid fingers at the team. The two girls and little boy returned with the requested items that were set within Teyla's reach. Teyla pulled them closer and began wiping John's wrists.
Her ministrations were gentle, but the water stung and John hissed. Teyla flinched. "I am sorry."
Sheppard shrugged. "You're doing fine."
The old woman returned with Corla following contritely. "We will let you go if you swear not to seek vengeance on us. We meant you no harm and we would like to make up for what was done, have a chance to explain our actions."
It was Rodney who replied. "Just like that?"
The old woman dipped her head. "Just like that."
John narrowed his eyes. Caution poked and prodded out of ingrained habit. He thought long and hard concerning what the hell this old woman could be up to. It was kind of hard with them already at the woman's mercy. If this was some kind of a trick then it was either incomprehensibly elaborate or incredibly stupid, and this woman wasn't coming across as stupid. The Corla girl he didn't trust on principal – she'd strung him up like a piece of meat in a butcher shop. The old woman, however, rippled with an aura of sincerity and shame that was hard to ignore.
She didn't even wait for an answer. She jerked her chin at the team and Coral rushed forward, slicing through the bonds, then scuttling back. John stared hard at Ronon with the look he normally wore when he wanted the Satedan to stand down. It ended up being unnecessary as Ronon was coming off as more confused than pissed. Sheppard chalked it up to the equal of good and bad they'd encountered since being taken as slaves and escaping. It was hard to know what to think anymore.
Still, trust was a precious commodity that John had no intentions of handing out freely.
"How about our weapon?" Sheppard said. "I promise we won't use it on you but we're feeling kind of vulnerable without it."
The old woman took a moment to ponder this, then nodded. Slumping, Corla reached into her cloak, pulled the blaster, and tossed it to Ronon. Dex checked the safety and setting before holstering it. He nodded to the old woman. "Thanks."
John couldn't help a smile. An olive branch in the form of a weapon. Now that was all kinds of messed up.
"My name is Lieta," the old woman said. "And if you are so willing, I invite you back to our camp. We have food, fires, herbs that help heal wounds, and there is safety in numbers."
Sheppard couldn't argue that. He let Teyla finish wrapping his wrists, then, with her help, stood. "I'm John Sheppard. This is Teyla Emmagen, Ronon Dex, and Rodney McKay."
Rodney gave a tiny wave. "Hi."
"Just to be clear on a few things," John continued, "if we accept your offer it's not going to turn into you taking us to your camp just to be tied up there or put in some cage?" At any other time that would have incited a few chuckles, but John was serious and everyone knew it.
"I swear by my children and grandchildren that this will not be so. Our intent was never to harm." Lieta turned and started off, leading the way with the three girls and boys spreading out, taking point. The team followed.
"We will go back and fetch your supplies," Lieta said, "since it is still early. When we saw you, Mr. McKay, the light was poorly and we could not identify you for what you were. This is dangerous territory we walk through. Slavers by day, Syvyar when evening comes."
"Syvyar?" Teyla asked.
Lieta stopped and turned to regard the team with a furrowed brow. "Syvyar. The Snatchers?"
"You mean the wraith?" Ronon offered.
Lieta became even more confused, just for a moment, when her eyebrows lifted. "You are not from this world."
"No," John said. "We're not. We're traders. We were taken when we stepped through the ring then sold." An ambush, by soldiers, because the government in the west had been huffy about the Lanteans refusing trade with them, so gave into the attitude of "if we can't have them, no one can."
Lieta lifted her chin." Ah." She turned and resumed walking. "Which would explain why we found you in Syvyar territory with only one weapon. Do you know of the wraith worshippers?"
John grimaced. "We've come across a few, yeah."
"The Syvyar were worshippers once, or so the stories say. Except worship and reward was never enough for them. They were obsessed with the immortality and strength of the wraith. They did not want to simply bow to them, they wanted to be them. Which, of course, is impossible."
The team surreptitiously exchanged looks of discomfort but kept their mouths shut.
"The Syvyar believed the wraith's immortality lay in their eating habits. So they adopted those habits."
"How's that possible?" Rodney said. "Blood drinking?"
"At first," Lieta replied. "When it didn't work, they... stepped things up a bit."
"Think of the lambs, Clarice," Sheppard muttered.
Rodney's face twisted in disgust. "Eww! As if there wasn't enough man-eaters in this galaxy."
Ronon looked just as disgusted, even a little green. "They eat human flesh?"
Lieta nodded. "For many generations. My grandfather and father told me the stories. It was as though the Syvyar did not wish to give up, even though the consumption of human flesh did nothing. My grandfather theorized that the Syvyar had hoped immortality would come over time, that by devouring their own kind they would eventually change into the wraith. Well, they did indeed change. It is said that not even the wraith will touch them now."
An image popped into John's mind of that show, the one Miko had gotten everyone into after bringing the DVDs back with her. "Firefly" that was the one, and those cannibal people – Reevers.
"It is why we did what we did, why we attacked you. It is hard to tell friend from foe in the weaker light and Corla has yet to see an actual Syvyar for herself. I let her chase after you since she was already doing so. It was my mistake. She hung you from a tree, Mr. Sheppard, as the Syvyar will hang those they devour. I would say she is naïve and does not know better. She does, she simply does not take the stories seriously. What was done to you was terrible and I cannot offer enough apologies, only hospitality."
John will still shaken, still pissed, but not enough to take it out on the old lady. "It's all right. I lived." Corla, however, he'd prefer not to be within five feet of.
"So why aren't we, exactly, fretting over these Syvyar now?" Rodney asked glancing over his shoulder.
"Because they prefer not to act when it is so light. The Syvyar are cowards. Crafty, but cowards."
The image of reevers flitted from John's mind.
"They avoid daylight, roads, and large numbers. However, that's in terms of swarming their prey. If you do not have someone keeping an active watch during the night, the Syvyars will attempt to drag off those who are sleeping. Actually, my father said they will sometimes kill then drag, or render immobile to keep the... meat... fresh. They are adept at attacking so swiftly the victim makes no sound."
"Okay," Rodney squeaked. "Why the hell didn't anyone warn us about these Syvyar?"
"I, too, have not heard anyone mention them," said Teyla.
"Syvyars make for unpleasant conversation." Lieta replied. "You will not hear of them unless there was an attack, and as I said before, they avoid the road. It marks the end of their territory and they do not cross their own boundaries."
"So why not travel on the north side of the road?" Ronon asked.
"Slavers lurk there."
Enough said.
"I invite you to travel with us to make up for what was done," Lieta went on. "My people know of the Syvyars, how to avoid them while also avoiding the road. I'm afraid it may add a few days to your journey, but the nearer you come to the ring, the more likely you are to encounter the slavers. Taking the long way, you risk the Syvyars. But the Syvyars have limits, the slavers do not."
"We call that choosing the lesser of two evils," John said.
Lieta shrugged. "Whatever helps you survive is always the better choice."
The soldier in John whole-heartedly agreed.
It did not take them long to return to their little camp and gather their things. It took longer to reach Lieta's camp. Twilight came early to the woods and it was dark by the time they spotted the fires as orange dots through the trees. Rodney was wheezing, Teyla limping, and John had resorted to leaning against Ronon just to stay upright. They entered the camp consisting of two wagons hitched to animals like pony-sized camels with beaks instead of lumpy snouts. The occupants stood or froze – kids, all of them. Three girls from around twelve to eight to six, and two more boys, one thirteen and one five. No older males. Of course, John found this odd, but he didn't feel it polite to say anything.
Ronon, however, held no such compunctions. "Slavers?"
Lieta nodded. "They attacked our camp, scattered us, took mostly the men and teenage boys. The last I saw of my husband, he went off with my daughter's husband into the woods to lead the slavers off. We believe there is a shortage of manual labor, especially in the mines."
John's heart thudded so hard he stumbled. "Gee, I wonder why?" he spat.
Lieta either didn't hear or had nothing to say to that. She started barking orders for pots to be put on the fire, food gathered and chopped, and for someone to bring her healing herbs.
"Can we be of any help?" Teyla offered. They could be fighting for their lives in the heat of battle and she would still recall when to be courteous. John found it refreshing and it made him smile, just a little. A real olive branch this time.
Lieta shook her head resolutely. "No, you are our guests. Sit, get warm, food will be ready soon. Mr. Sheppard, it may be wise to take a second look at your wounds."
There were three fires blazing. The nearest Lieta directed the team to sit at, the fire on the right was warming an iron pot hanging from a spit, and the third the old woman led John to. Teyla followed close behind.
The oldest boy brought stools without being asked. Lieta sat on one and gestured at the other. "Sit."
John dropped into it and held out his wrists. Lieta was neutral as she removed the wrappings, and remained neutral after they were off, except for a twitch in her cheek. Sheppard's wrists were raw and wet reflecting light off the oozing flesh exposed by the removal of the outer skin. Old blood still crusted the skin and fresh blood had become tacky. All together, the damage extended from the tips of his fingers to below the veins of his wrist. He was damn lucky he hadn't bled out.
Lieta was gentle as she turned his arms to look the wounds over. The right wrist was darker; purple, blue and black beneath the red, and swollen.
"You put up a vicious fight to get free," Lieta stated.
John shrugged, tense and suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah, well... I don't like being tied up. Not like that."
"Not like that," Lieta echoed softly. "I don't really blame you."
Children brought her two bowls, one with pungent water and the other with some sort of beige paste. Lieta took the cloth from the bowl of water and squeezed the scented liquid onto John's wrists to soften up the hardened blood.
"Mum!" One of the younger girls, the teen, called. "The stew isn't thickening."
Lieta passed the cloth over to Teyla. "Could you do this? When you are finished washing, apply the byak paste to the abrasions, then wrap his arms from fingers to elbow. The water cleans the wounds, the paste keeps the wounds clean." She moved to let Teyla take her seat.
Teyla dipped the rag into the bowl and squeezed more water over John's arm, twice. Her motions were so hypnotically methodical as she wiped away the blood that John felt himself begin to mentally drift until he barely felt the sting that made his fingers twitch. Except when a thread of the cloth caught on a ragged edge of flesh. John hissed, jerking his arms back.
"Sorry," Teyla said. "I am so sorry."
John shook his head. "We've already been through this. It can't be helped. Better pain now than infection later."
Teyla dipped the rag, squeezed it, and wiped. She was quiet, but not in the way she had been since they'd found each other. This was an uncomfortable silence, full of tension and uncertainty, as though Teyla were afraid to speak at all. It was starting to make John nervous.
"Teyla...?"
"I am sorry," she blurted. She looked up at him in desperation. "John I am so sorry I left you. I did not want you caught, I wanted you safe. I wanted just one of us to be safe. I wasn't leaving you, I was trying to protect you, but I did leave you," her voice caught, hiccuping in a sob. "I left you." She said the words in horrified realization, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth. Tears flashed amber and red down her face. "By the Ancestors, I left you." Teyla bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she shook and convulsed in silent weeping. "I left you."
John's heart broke, shattered, stabbing him with shards of guilt, sorrow, sympathy, fear, and understanding. He wanted to reach out and embrace her like a child, tell her that everything was going to be all right and that he didn't blame her. But his arms wouldn't let him. So he settled for leaning forward and pressing his forehead against hers.
"Crap, Teyla, it's all right. I know what you were trying to do. You shouldn't feel guilty for that. Just... please don't feel guilty. You were trying to save me, which is exactly what I would have tried to do and you know it. Don't feel bad about trying to do the right thing, please. And we're still here, the both of us, all four of us. We're still alive and together. That's all that matters."
Teyla nodded but kept sobbing. John let her, keeping his forehead against hers, his presence a constant within her personal space so that she wouldn't forget he was still there any time soon. After a moment, the shuddering and gasping quieted. Teyla lifted her head away, wiping lingering tears from her face, then picking up where she'd left off.
"You're a good person Teyla," John said. "I've yet to see you do anything that wasn't for the right reasons."
Teyla smiled at that. It was a little tentative, but it was still a smile. She wiped away the last of the blood, then gathered a wad of the paste onto her fingers and smeared it over the lacerations.
"Anyways," John said, sheepish. "I should be the one apologizing... for the freak-out. I, uh, apparently scared the hell out of you guys doing that."
Teyla paused. "It was not the 'freaking out' itself that frightened me. It was more..." she furrowed her brow, "that you were terrified enough to react in such a way." She continued, smearing on more paste, then wrapping John's arms to his fingers, leaving his thumbs free, binding the right arm tighter than the left. When she finished, she placed her hands lightly on either side of John's face and met his gaze. "I swear we will not let it happen again." She then took him by the upper arm to help him stand.
They moved back to the fire where Rodney and Ronon sat, Ronon holding up blankets for them to take. Teyla handed one to John and wrapped the other around her shoulders. She sat beside Rodney, and John beside her. Rodney leaned forward studying them in that way of his, both analytical and nervously concerned.
"You guys all right?"
"As good as we're going to get," John said, which was the best he could come up with. They weren't fine, neither were they any worse off.
Rodney reached out, rather hesitant, to pat Teyla on the back. An outsider would see the action weak at best. People who knew him saw beyond the gesture to the attempt that would never be made for anyone else. McKay was more compassionate than most gave him credit for, it just took a little translating to see it.
Teyla took Rodney's hand and clasped it between both of hers, moving her elbow until it brushed up against John's. Across from them, Lieta tapped a wooden spoon against the pot's rim and told the oldest boy and teenage girl to fetch the bowls.
----------------------------
John threw his legs out into the abyss, scissor kicking and twisting, spinning, but never once hitting flesh. It stripped him of his energy leaving him hanging like a piece of meat. That's when the hands always came, stroking him, hitting him, pushing him so that he swung, and all John could do was snarl and sob.
Then jerk awake to someone trying to stab him in the shoulder with their elbow. John lifted his head and stared dumbly at the writhing figure tangled in the blankets until he realized it was McKay. Rodney's eyes were squeezed shut. He was battling his own nightmare. John reached out and shook him by the shoulder. The result was for the back of Rodney's hand to come flying at his face. Sheppard easily cringed away from it in time thanks to the freshly ingrained instinct to avoid all striking appendages.
Rodney bolted upright and gasped. "Whoa! Geez! Damn it!" then he sighed. "Crap."
John picked his head up off the folded blanket acting as his pillow. "You all right, Rodney?"
McKay slumped back, resting on his elbows. "Yeah. Bad dream. Involved lots of running and going no where."
John flinched in sympathy. "I hate those."
"Yes, well... at least I wake up. The real life version didn't come with those kind of perks."
"You were chased."
Rodney nodded. "My rather sadistic boss had temper tantrums for no reason. He'd chase everyone from the studies, usually waving this riding-crop thing he always stuck in his belt, or a cane, or just start throwing things. Problem was, me being the slowest, I got the brunt of his need to vent."
John didn't hold back a second flinch. "At least it's over now," he said, pushing for positive.
"It's over when we're back through the gate," Rodney replied. "Until then it's more like a stalemate. We could just as easily end up going back, or end up someplace worse," then he added, like an amendment when he finally looked over at John, "not that we'll let that happen or anything, of course."
"Of course," John said.
"Like hell we're going back."
"I'll fight until they're forced to kill me."
Rodney didn't whole heartedly agree, but neither did he balk. He had a look of resignation, but it was a sullen one. He didn't want to die. Neither did John. The alternative, however, was just too much bad for it not to be an option.
"But let's focus on making sure it doesn't come to that," John added. It was only fair since he was the one who wanted to be positive.
It was a gray, overcast early morning. The dropped temperatures had turned the carpet of spongy loam brittle and crystallized, crackling beneath them if they so much as shifted. John and Rodney tried to go back to sleep but gave up when everyone else began stirring. Lieta, her children, and grandchildren tossed fresh wood onto the ashes and stoked new fires licking the base of the metal pots. Breakfast was a porridge that reminded John of rice pudding, and gray bread. After breakfast, the children dumped and cleaned the pots before loading them back onto the wagons.
They were ready to go in what felt like minutes. The smaller children were set on the buckboards of the wagons. The rest were armed with knives, swords, and daggers, with Lieta and her two oldest daughters exchanging cross-bows for rifles. She passed curved daggers out to the team.
"You keep these on you at all times," she said. "Especially as you sleep."
John tucked his knife into the leather belt that was keeping his pants up above his bony hips.
"If they had rifles," Rodney whispered into John's ear, "why didn't they use them on us?"
The answer was so simple John thought it should have been obvious. "To save ammunition. Plus you now how trigger-happy high-strung people get."
Rodney reared his head back in righteous indignation. "Hey!"
"It wasn't a remark toward your shooting skills, Rodney," John said. "Although I won't deny that you're probably more dangerous with a gun than most marines, even if your aim does suck."
Rodney was sputtering too much to respond with a witty retort. He was soon distracted by the wagons trundling and rattling as the beasts pulling them were tugged into motion by those on foot.
"Stay close to the wagons," Lieta said. "If you see movement out in the woods, tell us but do not act. We know how to track the Syvyar without stumbling into one of their traps."
"I thought you said the Syvyar didn't come out during the day?" Rodney said.
Lieta glanced over her shoulder. "I said they prefer not to act during the day. Cowardly, remember? They attack when it is most advantageous. I also said they were clever. If they can't come to you, they will try to bring you to them, draw you away, bring you close to their settlement – where ever their settlement is for the day – where their numbers are greater and they can swarm."
"They do not reside in one spot?" Teyla asked.
"No."
Rodney paled. "Then how do we know we're not walking right into their settlement now?"
"Because we would have seen them by now. They would be trying to lure us away. See one or two Syvyar, you are safe. Three, four, or five and you are tempting fate. Any more than that and you are dead. But there is a much simpler way to avoid them."
"How?" asked Ronon.
"You'll see."
The wagons, crackling loam, and heavy breathing were the only sounds. It was hard to say if the silence was unnatural. Winter was generally a quiet time of year, but John's already ragged nerves wanted him to read into it as something that he needed to worry about.
His nerves were probably right.
It was a rough road they took. The frozen moss hid gnarled roots, potholes, rocks, and abandoned animal holes. John was surprised the wagons stayed in one piece the way they bounced and rocked. It was even more of a shock that all the stuff piled in the beds had yet to fall out.
There was a cold wind blowing in gusts that sliced against the exposed skin of John's face. It pushed against him in bursts, tugging his clothes and the thinner branches above them. The wagons drowned out the creaking until they stopped for a quick lunch of bread and dried meat-strips. The laughter of children was always pleasant to hear but today it was a relief, like the absent bird-song, letting them know that, at the moment, everything was all right. John's nerves eventually got the hint and stopped prodding him to remain on high alert, which drained him quicker when combined with stumbling over hidden forest obstacles.
When they stopped for the night, Ronon volunteered to take watch. John tried to, just to try, knowing full well it wouldn't happen. It didn't lessen the blow any.
John dreamed the same dreams that woke him before he was ready. Teyla calmed him, helped him to remember where he was and go back to sleep. Lieta had them wake before dawn the next day, and by the time they left after breakfast there was just enough light to see the trees.
"The sooner we leave Syvyar territory, the better," was all she said when they started off.
John looked up at Ronon. "Did they see anything? Hear anything?"
Ronon shook his head. "No. Doesn't mean something isn't out there."
That was usually Ronon's subtle way of saying they were being watched. John could feel it himself like a weight between his shoulder blades that drew his gaze deep into the forest and kept it there. The trees were endless, like staring into the darkness hoping to see some shape or motion that would break the monotony. That break came when they stopped to eat and the children would run wild, shrieking with laughter.
The next day they didn't even have that luxury. The silence was thicker, constant, and the children subdued. There was a smell in the air that came and went on the wind, one that made John's flesh try to crawl off his bones. It was putrid, sharp, killing his appetite so that he barely ate. Teyla was the first to notice since she was the one always trying to coax him into eating more. The farther they traveled, the stronger the smell became, and it made John's hunger short lived.
"Lieta," Teyla asked during their evening meal. "Where is that smell coming from?"
Lieta was ladling stew into bowls and handing them out. "It would be better if I didn't tell you. It's... hard to explain, and now isn't the time."
"I think it's pretty damn obvious what it is," John spat, pushing his half-eaten bowl away. "The question is, why are we moving toward it?"
Lieta paused in her motions. "Because the Syvyar move away from it."
That night, when they slept, John dreamed a different dream. Bodies, great hills of them, his own topping the pile. He could hear the moans, wails, and pleads of the ones not dead yet, so he crawled. He crawled to find them. He'd never intended to get away, not alone, not without the ones crying for help. But their voices trickled away into perfect silence. John tumbled down the hill, jutting bones bruising his already abused body. He hit the ground hard, cried out in pain, and rolled onto his stomach to crawl away.
Hands grabbed him; bony, claw-like, digging into his ankles, calves, thighs, pulling him back toward the hill, into the base where the long-dead had already rotted away. He wouldn't be found there. He would rot, forever, drowning in the stench of blood and old skin. John screamed, clawing at the ground that had become viscous. He shrieked, tore, thrashed, wild as a sick animal. He wouldn't be trapped. He'd promised himself he wouldn't. Not again.
Slender arms wrapped around his chest from the front, solid arms from around his back, tightening when he tried to push away.
"John! John! Wake up, please!"
John snapped his eyes open, gasping in air until his lungs felt ready to rip, sucking in enough oxygen to feed the blood tearing through his veins pumped by his viciously thrashing heart. He shook, sobbed, and sagged into Teyla's and Ronon's restraining embrace.
"It is all right, Ronon," Teyla said. The Satedan's arms slid away leaving Teyla the one keeping John upright.
Sheppard's chest stuttered with each heaving inhale. "I don't know if I can do this." He was alarmed by how easy it was to admit that. It made him feel like something less than what he was, like a coward. But truths were usually harsh like that.
"Then we will help you," Teyla said. She lowered him back to the ground and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. He closed his eyes, squeezing them. He hated himself so bad. He had become more than useless, he had become a liability. If he freaked, refused to go on, it was going to put the rest of his team, and Lieta and her family, in danger.
He could be a coward all he wanted, he just couldn't afford to be afraid.
-----------------------------
Rot poured into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs until he could barely breathe, coating his tongue until it was all he tasted. It forced him to close his eyes and eat fast to get enough food into him before the nausea began to boil.
And that was just breakfast. By lunch he could only handle a few bites of bread and swallows water. This was saying something. As much as Rodney griped and gagged, he still ate more than John.
When they started off again, about an hour in, give or take, Lieta slowed the lead wagon to a halt and just stood there.
Then she looked back. "Brace yourselves." Her oldest daughters tied blindfolds around the eyes of the younger children riding on the buckboards.
Rodney looked at the others. "What the hell does that mean?"
The wagons resumed trundling, skirting a tree with a skeleton hanging low on a thick branch by the wrists, a rotten wooden sign in messy foreign scrawl nailed to its breastbone.
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Hollow bones clacked above the rumbling of the wagons muted by the soft earth and old moss. Remains hung from trees like primitive wind-chimes swaying in the smallest breeze: ribs, femurs, clavicles, ulnas, fingers... Sheppard didn't know all the names, but he knew each bone and where they belonged in the human body.
"They are to mark the trail," Lieta had said.
"To what?" Rodney had asked, but in a tone of a man asking just to hear his own voice. He didn't expect a verbal answer and Lieta didn't give one.
The marked path turned skirting the edge of a ravine. Teyla moved fast stepping in front of John, blocking it from sight. Too bad for her she wasn't tall enough. John didn't even have to stretch his neck to see the great heaps of bloodied remains choking the bottom. Bones picked clean of flesh, muscle and sinew leaving only scraps for the bugs to eat.
The bugs, thick clouds of them droning en mass until Sheppard's living bones vibrated. A low sound that filled the hollow spaces of his chest until he thought it was going to split open. They danced around his skin, trying to burrow into his ear and up his nose. They landed on the bare flesh of his face, hands and chest where the shirt hung low. His skin twitch, shuddering like the flesh of a skittish horse. He could feel them crawling through the wide collar onto his back, making for the old scabs fading into scars. John swatted at them, the slap of skin on skin cracking sharp through the air. But they kept coming, so he kept swatting, until he felt the sting of them biting the old wounds of his back. He startled, yelping, and threw himself slamming his back into the nearest tree, smashing them all.
"Whoa, Sheppard, easy." Rodney reached out with one hand as though ready to catch John if he fell, but uncertain about actually touching the man.
John pushed away from the tree, stumbling. Rodney did catch him, taking him gently by the arm until he was steady.
"Damn bugs," John rasped. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone. His hands were shaking; his whole body was shaking.
"It is all right, John," Teyla soothed.
"Maybe, uh," Rodney stammered. "Maybe... Maybe we could blindfold you, so you don't..."
"No!" John gasped. "No. No..." It would be worse – the smells, the sounds. It had never been about what he'd seen. "It's just... bugs." He smiled weakly. "I hate bugs."
Rodney's throat bobbed in a nervous swallow. "Yeah, sure."
John didn't flinch when Teyla placed her hand on his shoulder with her fingers touching his collarbone, and when Rodney moved in close, offering something to collide against in case he stumbled again. He'd expected to. The stench of death, insects, skin against skin... except it was warm skin, and warm skin was alive, just like the body crowding in close was alive. They continued on as though trudging through the mud: careful and slow, swatting at bugs drinking the sweat at their temples.
John startled his team by chuckling dryly. "It's quiet."
Rodney balked. "Uh-huh."
It was. No moans, groans, or pleads for help. Sheppard hadn't panicked until they'd stopped. He'd been terrified for their sakes and for his own, because he couldn't save them and he thought he was alone. The solitude had scared the hell out of him, as well as the prospect of being next.
Sheppard dared to stare into the river of bones. Crap, it was so damn different, all because it was quieter, even with the hum of the bugs. It made his gut clench in equal parts horror, anger, sorrow, pity and relief. At least these people had been dead before being dumped. Thinking that made him feel like he was justifying all this, except he wasn't. These people hadn't suffered. John and the ones wailing for mercy had, at least, been allowed to participate in a game of second-chances roulette. Some made it, most didn't, but at least the opportunity had been there.
John wasn't sure where this line of thought was going. Probably an attempt at the positive. But he wasn't going to kid himself; it sucked either way because no one should have to go through something like this, dead or alive.
Sheppard looked away. Not because he couldn't stand looking, there just wasn't anything more to see except for what was already there. He felt suddenly tired and was grateful for Rodney's proximity, providing something to lean up against.
He glanced up at the ones ahead, looking away from the ravine, except for an ashen-faced Corla until her mother grabbed her by the jaw and forced her head to turn. The girl suddenly lurched the side, doubling over and heaving.
"John?" Teyla said.
Sheppard blinked, pulling in a quiet breath. "I'll be alright."
--------------------------------
"It is where the Syvyar dispose of all remains. They do not go anywhere near it since they believe the smell deters their prey," Lieta explained. Night had come by the time they left the ravine behind. They kept going, just a little further, then set up camp. Lieta was now dishing up stew and passing out the bowls.
"So we do the opposite," Ronon said. "Smart." He didn't even use a spoon, just tipped the bowl like a cup.
They were up-wind of the stench but it still lingered like old perfume. John managed a few bites of broth before calling it quits. The smell was still loitering in his nose, his mouth, every time he breathed out, and his stomach hadn't settled since he first caught wind of the rot. He could still hear bone wind-chimes.
Teyla's hand touched lightly against his back. "John, you really need to eat more."
He handed the bowl to her. "Tell me that after we put ten miles between us and this place." Sheppard stared out over the fire at Lieta's silent and ashen-faced older children, and the skittish younger children. He wasn't the only one having problems eating. Corla was huddled against a wagon-wheel, stirring her stew without bringing any to her mouth. She must have sensed she was being watched when she looked up to meet Sheppard's gaze, only to avert her eyes abruptly to the ground. Even in the weak light John could see the color of her face darken from pale to pale green and she set her bowl aside, pushing it away.
"I think she gets it, now," Ronon said. Nothing ever got past the Satedan.
Teyla was the last to finish eating. They then curled up against each other, buried under blankets, and slept.
-----------------------------
John dreamed of bodies, great mountains of broken, shrunken flesh and misaligned bones. He stood on the very top, so light he might as well be insubstantial. He was king of the mountain, except he didn't want to be. But if he moved, they would feel it. They would grab him, pull him down with them. He could never run fast enough, far enough. They would always bring him back, filling his lungs and mouth with death until he suffocated.
A hand snaked across his foot.
John awoke, jackknifing upright with a gasp to a misty gray morning barely skirting the edges of sunrise. He concentrated on his breathing, pulling in lung-fulls against the need for rapid panting to keep up with his jackhammering heart.
He stopped breathing all together when he saw Death standing within the mist; black-clad but without his scythe and still as the surrounding trees. He stood profile with his face turned away and obscured except for a sliver of pale flesh. John just stared until his heart stuttered, reminding him to breathe. He inhaled quietly, slowly, which his lungs weren't happy about.
He didn't know why. Much of what he did these days didn't hold much rhyme or reason. Definitely no sanity and common sense. If that was really Death, then John was pissed that he was here. If this was a dream, all the more better. If not, then he'd happily give up his sanity after he let the bastard know what it was like to taste corpses on the air.
John wasn't going back to the charnal pit.
He reached beneath the folded blanket acting as his pillow and slipped the knife out, tucking it up into his sleeve, hilt down wrapped in his grip. He rose, trembling but fluid, and crept toward Death standing at the edge of the woods.
Death turned.
No, not Death. Friend of death, maybe. Neither male nor female, John couldn't tell. The threads of brown hair came to their waist, bordering a face so sunken it could have been mistaken for a skull at a distance. Gray eyes floated in hollow sockets surrounded by waxy skin that didn't look real. It was dressed in a black robe with a black cowl.
The Syvyar stared at John and John stared at the Syvyar, not much difference between them except that his hair was short, and he didn't eat people. Sheppard pulled the knife from his sleeve to let the Syvyar see it, because if it wanted a fight, John would give it one. He wasn't going back to the charnal pits. Any charnal pit.
Instead of meeting the challenge by stepping forward, the Syvayr stepped back. It didn't want to play and John didn't blame it. He wasn't exactly appetizing; no meat beneath his flesh, his bones probably not even worth being made into soup, or his skin into whatever they use the skin for.
The silence was thick, suffocating, not even broken by the muffled thump of John's pounding heart; then it was shattered by the hiss and crunch of something being dragged across the ground. Both turned their head to see another Syvyar hauling something – someone – but Sheppard couldn't see who with a bag covering their head. John didn't waste time on thinking. He charged forward, plowing into the Syvyar, grabbing it by the back of the cowl and pressing the knife-edge to its throat. He shoved the thing into motion with his knee, bringing it and him in close to the second Syvyar.
John whistled sharply. The second Syvyar's head snapped up an around, the face as genderless as the first's, except it had pale blond hair.
"I suggest you leave the meat unless you don't care if your population shrinks," John hissed. He honestly hope it cared.
The second Syvyar regarded him without any outward emotion, the first didn't even squirm. This was messed up in too many ways for John to feel confident about, but he was good at putting on false fronts. Fear couldn't be dismissed or ignored, only subdued.
Right now John was terrified, which was good, pumping his diminished body full of enough adrenaline to forget that it was weak.
"Come on, pal, play nice. You give me what you have, I give you what I have. I think that's a pretty decent trade. Well, decent for me. You'll go hungry, but at least you'll still have you're hunting partner here."
The second Syvyar blinked owlishly. John pressed the knife in closer to Syvyar one's throat, nicking skin. "Hand the body over, now."
Past torment had turned Sheppard's body hypersensitive. His stomach recoiled when he felt the sharp tip of an elbow brush lightly across it. His attention flickered to his hostage, just in time to see gray light flash off the tarnished metal of a knife being angled toward his gut. John reacted on instinct, pulling his knife across the Syvyar's throat then releasing the body to crumple in a heap of black cloth on the ground.
John looked from the corpse to the second Syvyar, the only sound his own heavy breathing and blood dripping from the knife patting on the ground like rain. They were back to staring, waiting. The Syvyar betrayed nothing in terms of emotions. Maybe they no longer felt anything, reduced to mere animals, kill or be killed. It could also be a hunting tactic. With no emotions to judge by, John didn't know what to expect.
Lieta said they hunted in packs.
John heard the whisper of cloth over soil. He whirled around at the same time the air exploded with the crack of rifle fire, twice. The Syvyar that had been coming up behind him crumpled. John peered over his shoulder at the second now sprawled on the ground. The oldest girl came bounding like a deer up to the trust-up body. She dropped to her knees, slinging the rifle over her shoulder before pulling the hood from Corla's unmoving head. She began patting the girl's face, speaking softly, urging her to awake. Corla was pale in a way that she could have been mistaken for dead, then she groaned and rolled her head to the side.
"I owe you a debt, Mr. Sheppard."
John looked over to see Lieta approaching more slowly, her rifle still in hand. "Rather reckless way to go about things, but effective." She stopped next to him and looked him over. "What possessed you to approach the Syvyar?"
John wanted to say complete lack of sanity. Instead, he shrugged. "Thought it was something else." He jerked his chin toward Corla. "Will she be all right?"
Lieta looked toward her daughter who was struggling to sit up. " Yes. The Syvyar merely knocked her out. They wanted her alive." She looked back at John. "Fresher that way."
John grimaced in disgust. His arms and legs started to tremble as the adrenaline melted from his body. He turned and dragged his weary frame back to his team, all awake and on their feet, at the ready.
"What was that all about?" Rodney babbled. "What happened?"
John tossed the knife to the ground and dropped onto his bedding. "I don't want to dream anymore." He lay down, wrapping the blanket around his shivering shoulders, but did not sleep.
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TBC...