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VII. No Fear
He'd only meant to stop to drink, but now he found himself fighting sleep, dizzy, nauseous, and starving all at once. Get off your ass. You'll never forgive yourself if something happens to her. Get. Up. His stomach lurched, making his broken and bruised ribs grate against each other and he realized that sparing a moment to maintain the functionality of his body was useful.
He tugged off his shirt as gently as he could and had to take a moment to catch his breath, wincing from the deep, creaking pain, then withdrew one of the knives he had scavenged from one of the bodies in the village. Though the attackers had been sure to strip him of his weapons, he was now haphazardly armed with two knives and a tomahawk. He planned to use the blade to cut the hem of his shirt into several strips to bind his chest to keep his ribs as still as possible, yet he'd only touched the blade to the fabric when the hair on the back of his neck rose. Closing his mouth to quiet his breathing, he listened intently. Though he heard no footfalls above the trickling of the stream near which he rested, a bird took flight, soaring towards the Satedan on pulsing wings with a small chirp.
Ronon stiffened, his left hand slowly reaching for his second knife as he readied his first. A war cry sounded behind him and he whirled about, wielding both knives. The enemy had launched himself at the Satedan and in one swift move, Ronon slashed one blade across the other man's throat and the other knife grazed his side. The would-be assassin landed hard on his shoulder, spurting out hisses of air through the slice in his bleeding neck. Ronon stumbled onto one knee as he turned to assess the damage he'd done to his attacker. The man was in his death throes and Ronon couldn't believe his luck over scoring such a crippling blow. A rush of adrenaline shot through his limbs, numbing his pain and fatigue.
Climbing back onto his feet, he took a step towards the dying man. Though he didn't recognize his face, the leather breeches and shaved portions of his head gave him away as a member of the enemy war party that held Teyla. The man looked up at him through wide eyes, gurgling desperately. Ronon sneered, raising his knife to strike a final blow.
An arrow struck him, stabbing a lock of hair into a nearby tree and Ronon yanked his head around just as another arrow sped towards him. He dropped to his knees, his pinned hair yanking then giving as it broke loose, as the shaft stuck into the bark where his chest had just been. He caught a glimpse of the brown of his attacker's skin slipping through the trees in an attempt to find a better vantage point.
Grabbing his tomahawk, Ronon screamed and charged forward, barreling through the underbrush. His attacker was hastily stepping backwards, nocking another arrow, but once Ronon was within a few feet he dropped his bow and ran. Ronon skidded to a halt beside the abandoned bow, wrenching back his arm and hurling the hatchet. It hit its mark with a cleaving thunk and the fleeing man fell face forward, sliding down a hillside.
Ronon pursued, slipping and sliding his way down the incline until he reached the form of the second man. His body was limp and decorated with dark war paint. Ronon yanked the blade out of his back with a quiet snap. The attacking warrior's spine had been severed and he was dead, as undoubtedly was his comrade by now. The Satedan's chest heaved to catch his breath as he wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. This was the first he'd seen of the enemy since he began his crusade and the satisfaction of knowing that he'd just bested two of the warriors who were sent to stop him filled him with a strength he knew he did not physically possess.
He grinned when his eyes fell upon the deer trail the two had traveled on to reach him. They had been so certain that they would accomplish their mission that they didn't bother to hide any sign of their passing. He thought about going back for his shirt but the trail was temptingly close and he didn't want to see the body of the first warrior again, lest the consequences of his actions beyond the logic of survival begin to taunt him. The pain of his injuries was beginning to creep up on him once more but he broke into a run along the deer path, the thought of Teyla's nearness lending him fortitude.
He concentrated on the thud of his heartbeat in his ears and the pulse of his blood as a song he had learned as a child drummed into his consciousness, bringing with it the memory of solstices celebrated with his village in the farmlands.
As the harvest came to an end and winter's icy tendrils tainted the air and annual celebration was held in a cleared field not an hour's walk from his home. Stalks of dried wheat were burned in a bonfire and he used to crane his neck to watch the top of the flames dance above him. Several songs were sung with drums and flutes and he could not remember a time that he did not know them by heart. They were joyous to the ear, though their lyrics in their antiquated tongue were often morbid, and he remembered playing chase games with his friends in the fields while the music echoed to them, often drowned out by their squeals.
Kinderly is now my coming
into this world with teres and cry
litel and povere is my having
britel and sone I falle from hit
sharpe and strong is my deying
I ne woth whinder schal I
foul and stinkande is my roting
on me, Winter you have mercy!
His mother used to take him by the hand to the fire as the villagers laced fingers in a large circle, slowly dancing their way towards the flames. He and his friends made games of testing themselves through the massive heat – whoever could get the closest to the blinding fire would win. He never won. He had always thought risking pain for so silly a thing as bragging rights was ridiculous. He would peel away from the others and play with his little sister instead, showing the toddler all the wonders of the night sky and the falling leaves.
Things changed when he got older... suddenly risking pain to near the flames was no longer silly but was the only logical reason to attend the celebration. Through their teens he and his friends' games of chase morphed into wrestling matches and the rare fight when the teasing became insulting. Shortly after their wedding, he and Melena had attended one such celebration and his heart had swelled as she and his sister goofily spun each other about in the light of the fire as he looked on, his mother hugging his shoulders with a laugh...
Ghosts... they were all ghosts now... Teyla would have loved the celebration. She was always asking him about his culture. He swallowed hard as he panted, not allowing himself to eye the intimidating height of the rise before him. Once Teyla was safe again, he'd have to tell her about the autumn celebration. Maybe they could even celebrate their own version as an homage to the Satedan dead, for the celebration was meant as an honor to the dying world as winter approached.
The sun was beginning to set and Mogodda was directing the group towards their camp for the night, still several miles distant beyond a glacier-carved cliff. Teyla squinted at it in the light of the sinking sun, trying to chase the despair from her bones at the sight of the ground to be covered. Her body protested at her every step and the band was now moving in single file to get across the rock shelf of the cliff to the forest on the other side.
She looked to her feet then down the side of the cliff as she stepped onto it. The sheer wall stretched below her for nearly a hundred feet, dotted with hardy shrubs and disappearing into the canopy below. She swallowed, inching towards the side of the trail closer to the cliff wall which stretched above her about fifty feet. When she slipped away that night this trail would be dangerous to negotiate. She felt her resolve begin to dim so she shoved the thought to the back of her mind, focusing instead on once more running through the list of landmarks that she'd memorized to guide her escape back to the stargate.
The incline continued without end in sight and his thighs and shins were burning mercilessly but he knew he couldn't stop or he'd lose his momentum and the choking, throbbing pain in his head and torso would collapse him. He couldn't let that happen now. He was almost there – the bushes at the top of the slope were still swaying from the passage of the last warrior in the column when Ronon had reached the base. The brow of the slope was now in sight. He readied his knives, using them to dig into the soil to aid his ascent when necessary.
His chest was burning with each heaving breath as sweat trickled from his brow and temples when he crested the slope, shoving past the bushes to gaze at the column of warriors half a mile away, traveling along the cliff trail. His jade green eyes scanned their length and his face broke into a smile when he recognized Teyla among them and knew by the nature of her motion that she was relatively unharmed.
He stepped onto the ledge, glancing down at the hazardous drop and the smoothed lumps of the cliff face. It looked as if it had once been the site of a massive ancient waterfall. He licked his lips lips in-between heaving breaths then returned his gaze to the column, resuming his pursuit at as quick a gait as he dared upon his weakening legs, willing his remaining strength into his limbs.
Teyla's plotting of her escape and fretting over the fate of whoever was following the warriors was interrupted when there was a sucking crunch from the tail of the column. She and several others turned their heads to look at the source of the sound. A wide-eyed, stiff-standing warrior at the back of the column lurched forward, revealing the tall Satedan warrior behind him as he yanked his knife free, not pausing in his challenging glare to the rest of the warriors as the body fell to his feet and slumped, sliding off the cliff.
Mogodda took a step towards the Satedan and Teyla's eyes widened as her lips parted. Ronon was alive. Mogodda shouted an order and her breath hitched in her chest as two more warriors at the end of the column whooped and charged, tomahawks drawn.
Ronon readied his dual knives, slashing each in turn where he knew they would be crippled most – his blade tore through the bicep of one and as he ducked a blow, the back of the knee of another. Both screamed in pain as they collapsed, neither having succeeded in dealing Ronon a blow as he stepped over them, his eyes leveled at Mogodda. Another warrior screamed and lunged at him with her war club but Ronon ducked. She lost her balance from the fruitless force of her swing and he rammed his shoulder into her chest. With a shriek of surprise she stumbled and fell over the edge of the cliff, sickeningly silenced when her skull split open upon an outcropping, leaving a dark stain as her limp form tumbled into the canopy below.
Teyla felt her stomach lurch at the sight and, along with the rest of the column, tore her gaze from the bloodstain to the Satedan. Ronon looked away from where the woman had fallen, as well, his chest heaving as he once more locked eyes with Mogodda whose brow furrowed. The two warriors held each other's gaze for several heartbeats, the challenge clear. Slowly, deliberately, Mogodda unsheathed a dagger and a tomahawk, accepting the unvoiced stakes.
Ronon sheathed one of his bloody knives and readied his tomahawk, matching the other large man's weaponry. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed out his own war cry and surged forward. The remaining warriors backed away from the small outcropping where Mogodda stood, tugging Teyla back with them. She didn't dare speak lest she break the Satedan's concentration.
The bodies of the two warriors eclipsed the light of the setting sun as they clashed before it, their hatchet handles ringing with a sharp crack as polished wood met polished wood. The light haloed their heads and shoulders golden as they shifted, each throwing his weight behind his weapon, trying to loose the footing of the other. Ronon screamed as he shoved Mogodda away from him then readied his knife for a sweeping strike at the older warrior's middle but Mogodda spun away from him, extending his blade behind him as he spun, slashing Ronon across his bare chest. The Satedan chocked on a cry of pain and surprise as the long gash that stretched diagonally from his breast to his hip began to instantly pulse out warm blood.
Teyla lurched forward but the hand of another stayed her. "Ronon..." she whispered, desperately twisting her hands in an attempt to loose her bonds, ignoring the pain and blood produced.
A corner of Mogodda's upper lip lifted in satisfaction as he watched Ronon eye the damage done to him. The Satedan looked back up, feeling the tap of his blood dripping from his abdomen onto the tops of his boots. The fire in his chest was growing stronger with each heartbeat. The glint of triumph in Mogodda's dark eyes sent a surge of adrenaline-filled fear and fury through the Satedan and with another scream he lunged for the war chief, feinting a swing with his hatchet. As Mogodda moved to block the blow, Ronon stabbed the other man between the ribs. Mogodda grunted and pulled away his tomahawk to swing at the dark bruises on Ronon's side, slamming the hilt into them, eliciting a satisfying scream from the Satedan.
Teyla yanked away from the hands that restrained her with a protesting shout upon hearing her teammate's scream. A hand yanking her hair back stopped her from stepping forward further.
Ronon fell onto one knee, his vision momentarily dimmed by the pain arresting his breathing and nearly toppling him. But his vision cleared within a heartbeat and through the haze of faerie lights that littered his vision he could see Mogodda yanking the blade out of his side with a grunt. Ronon rose to his feet, his arms and legs shaking visibly. He raised his hatchet and swung at Mogodda once more with a gasp but Mogodda's brawny arm raised his own hatchet in defense, barring the blow. As Ronon shoved against their once more locked blades, Mogodda used the knife the Satedan had stabbed him with to slice his hamstrings in the back of his thigh.
Teyla closed her eyes and looked away as the Satedan fell, the leather pant leg of his breeches now staining dark, as well. She could hear Ronon's shoulders slap against the surface of the rock and she opened her eyes, hesitantly looking to him, fighting the horror and nausea welling within her chest. Her lips parted as she realized that Ronon's eyes were upon hers and she held his gaze as Mogodda placed a foot on either side of the fallen warrior, stepping one moccassined foot in the growing pool of blood beneath the Satedan. Her heart beat faster as her brows twitched together, her lips moving soundlessly as she struggled to breathe around the desire to hold him in that heartbeat, safe from harm.
Ronon tore his gaze away from the earthen brown of Teyla's eyes as his vision swam, looking up at the silhouette of the warrior above him as it cleared once more, as the older man postured himself for victory. The Satedan could feel his strength fleeing him through his wounds with every beat of his heart... but it's still beating. There's still a chance. Get up. Get up now, Ronon. She's right there – just right there, within a few feet of you. It's almost over. Just get up and fight, you coward. She's right there. Right there... He took in a deep, searing breath and struggled to get onto his knees, but his bad leg was little more than a quaking, bleeding excuse of a support.
Mogodda took a step back, giving the other man his space to regain his footing to finish the fight.
Teyla yanked and wrenched at her bonds, gasping a little in pain as she watched Ronon shakily struggle first onto his knees then onto his feet, pressing a palm against the thigh of his good leg for support. Mogodda narrowed his dark eyes at Ronon as the Satedan stiffly brought himself to his full height, straightening his shoulders and tilting his chin outwards defiantly. Blood slicked his torso and the shaking of his arms and spasming of his wounded leg contradicted the fierce strength of his eyes as they remained locked with Mogodda's. The sun had almost disappeared behind the distant ridge, its dying rays caressing the two warriors locked in a posture of honor. Teyla's breathing faltered at the sight.
The Satedan broke the silence of the moment when he cried out again, swinging his tomahawk with both hands at Mogodda's chest. The chieftain blocked it with his own then grabbed the hilt of Ronon's hatchet, yanking him closer and wrenching the weakened man around, locking the back of his head into place against his tattooed breast with the wooden hilt of the hatchet. Ronon gasped as his leg spasmed violently and his body, barely able to support his own weight, was now wrenched into a position from which he could not escape.
Teyla watched in breathless horror as Mogodda yanked the handle violently, attempting to stop Ronon's weak resistance as the Satedan struggled against the hilt, then raised a bloodied knife, looking to the troop of warriors in silent confirmation that they were to witness his final blow, rendering him the victor. The blade caught the sunlight, glinting white on the blood, matching the sheen of Ronon's weeping, shuddering chest. She looked to his eyes which were nearly half-lidded as he continued to struggle to breathe, weakly tugging on the bruising hilt at his throat. The thought of never seeing the jade green of his eyes again awoke within her a primal rage that knew no fear.
Mogodda brought the knife down, releasing the hatchet to hold Ronon by the hair, angling the knife to slit his throat. Teyla used her elbow to knock one of the men restraining her in the jaw and kicked the other in the groin. Just as Mogodda was readying his arm to yank the knife across the Satedan's neck, Teyla crossed the few paces to him and as he looked to her in surprise, she hurled her lower body to first kick the knife out of his hand then kick him in the shoulder with her heel. Mogodda released the Satedan who slumped onto the blood-slick rock.
The chieftain's back was to the cliff and he raised his hatchet with a snarl at the Athosian. His muscles rippled as he began to swing and Teyla screamed, swinging a leg into the air for momentum then kicking him on the side again with a force that sent him off-balance. Her footing slipped as she landed and she caught herself on the side of her thigh, watching with satisfaction as Mogodda jerked stiffly, attempting to keep his balance. His arm holding his tomahawk was leaning over his shoulder and the weight of the weapon undid him as his feet slipped in Ronon's blood and with a yelp, he disappeared over the edge of the cliff. There was a crunching thunk as he landed.
Teyla panted as she whipped her head about to face the other warriors who had made no move to stop her. They had watched with rapt attention and now several looked to Teyla who rose to her feet. One stepped forward and withdrew his knife. She tensed, knowing that she couldn't fight the rest of the warriors with bound hands and no weapons, yet the man slowed as he approached, making a quiet sound and lowering his blade unthreateningly. He curled his fingertips, beckoning her forward.
Cocking her head a little, she warily did as she was bid. Once within a foot of the warrior he slowly stepped behind her, making eye contact with her over her shoulder before sliding the blade between her bonds and cutting her free. He then stepped away from her, backing up respectfully and sheathing his knife. He turned to say something to the others and though their eyes lingered a bit longer, they resumed their trek. The warrior who had set her free brought up the rear and inclined his head to her in acknowledgement before turning his back to her. She gingerly touched her scabbing, throbbing wrists, waiting until the column had ceased glancing back at her before showing any weakness in her stance, understanding that she had finished the duel that Ronon had started, winning her freedom.
She looked down to her teammate as soon as she felt she could risk it. He had rolled onto his back, his body wet from lying in his own blood, and was trying to climb to his feet. His name was barely a whisper on her lips as she knelt beside him, holding out a hand to help him but staying it, not knowing where to place it to aid him. "Ronon?"
He didn't respond with his usual lie of being fine. Instead he gasped quietly, sitting up on one hip. The shaking of the arm that steadied him alarmed her, as did the amount of blood, yet the wound on his chest seemed to be clotting. The hoarse wheeze of his voice broke into her assessment of his injuries. "Are you okay?"
She looked to his ashen face, noting the small beads of sweat gathered on his brow then nodded solemnly. "Yes, I will be fine."
Though relief showed in his eyes, they still traveled her length, looking her over for injuries. "They didn't hurt you?"
Tears were stinging her eyes as she took in his weak form, wondering how they could possibly make their way back to the 'gate when he was so gravely injured. "Only a little."
He sighed and lay back down, closing his eyes as exhaustion hummed through his body, dulling the pain and muffling his coherent thought. She leaned over him, her brows furrowing. "Ronon?" She rested her hand on his collarbone.
Though it took a heartbeat longer than she would have liked, he opened his eyes again and sought hers questioningly.
She bit her lower lip and cupped his cheeks with her hands, leaving red stains from his blood on her fingers. "Ronon, I know you are tired and hurt, but I need you to stay awake. You must stay awake and focused for we are leaving this place and going home to get you help, alright?"
She could see his eyes fighting to maintain focus as he whispered "Home?"
Teyla felt a tear snake down her cheek as she nodded. "Yes. Home. You have a home Ronon, in Atlantis."
The faintest smile tugged at his lips as he continued to gaze at her face, his breathing short and shallow. "Wherever you are."
She returned the small smile, moving a hand to hold his. "We will return there together. I promise." His smile lingered and she squeezed his hand, furrowing her brow and willing her own strength into his body. "But you have to stand now, Ronon, so that I may help you walk and we can return home."
He nodded mutely then pulled on their linked hands for support as he attempted to rise. She leaned back and rose with him, grabbing him around the waist to steady him, supporting more of his weight than she had hoped she would have to.
Please review!
"Kinderly," by The Mediæval Bæbes, is in a form of Middle English. The below translation is fairly accurate and has been translated into more eloquent Modern English. Though I did not translate it personally, as a student of the more ancient form of our language, Old English, I can assure you that this translation is a good one! In the lyrics, however, I have replaced the word for Jesus with "Winter," for obvious reasons.
My arrival here is natural
Into this world with tears and crying;
What I have is not much, and poor at that,
Frail and too quickly I have fallen from on high,
My death is sharp and severe,
I do not know where I am going,
foul and stinking I rot,
O, Winter have mercy on me!