Second Chance

Cainwen: I am so very sorry to not have had this up sooner. It was very difficult to write, and life is still pursueing its vendetta against me.

(Steve Plushie and Wraith snarl angrily. I snarl back)

Cainwen: Further, it is very difficult to type with one arm twisted behind your back!(Glares at Steve. Steve huffs) Anyway, thanks to all my reviewers, i simply didn't have time to respond. Thanks to Kyrie for betaing. And for those who want to know the fuller back story of this Wraith(points over shoulder) stick around, because after this is done in about 2-4 chapters, there will be a prequel, yet unnamed, from the point of view of Seàrlaid, his wife.(Wraiths growl). And now, on with the story. Btw, if it sounds Shakespearean, its because I have been reading him and just seen several of his plays preformed. Eek!

We run, as the living run from encroaching death.

As I lead Sheppard through the winding maze of the prison, as the corridors grow more colorful and light, as we get further and further from the cells and the torture chamber and closer to freedom and the living world, I know myself to be dying.

We run, as a drowning man struggles frantically to break the surface.

The pain threatens to overwhelm me in its dark flood. I run at a crouch so my coat holds back the torrents of my blood—I would not leave a trail that a blind mouse could follow.

We run, ever upward, ever toward the surface, as the dead may struggle to rise at the end of days when the Ancient of Days and the Spirits will judge men and wraith alike for their crimes.

I do not feel the six bullets of the dying guard encased in my flesh send out their lances of white-hot pain…the shots from the last have turned my organs into rags of flesh, awash in a sea of my blood…

I hear Sheppard struggle along behind me, limping because of the wound in his leg, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

I send a silent prayer to the Spirits, that none of the guards may be near, for I have no energy to spare listening for them. What energy I have, I am using simply to force my heart to beat one more time, my feet to take one more step, my torn lungs to take one more breath…

Oh, how I long to lie down, to rest in a corner, to go to sleep and awake no more…to feel the embrace of my beloved Seàrlaid instead of dead iron shackles…to hear the laugh of my children instead of the derision of the guards…

But I will go on. I will force breath into my body until Sheppard is safely away from this place.

I could not save my children. All but one are dead—if not in body, then in spirit, and so are dead to me.

I could not save Gillesbachan. I could not keep Amhalghaidh from death, nor Durhan, nor could I stop the queen from killing my wife and daughters, all but one.

But the Spirits have given me a chance to make amends for my sins. In this man, this child, I am given the chance to save my sons, my daughters, my wife, my hive. He is my son, my children, returned in a form with the weakness of a babe. I am given the chance to balance the scales—save this child, as I could not save mine. Bring this child back to life from death, as I could not mine. Give my life for him, as I could not for mine own.

At last we reach a last ladder. I can hear the trees and the stars calling to me…beyond the dead hatch above my head is the living world.

I begin to climb, but to do so saps my strength more than a thousand painsticks. I feel the blood filling my lungs with every ragged breath, feel the bullet shards tear into my flesh, scrape bone. My heart struggles to pump the dregs of life in my veins, for it has gushed from the riverbeds and flowed into the dark ocean in my gut.

I reach the hatch, and summon all my strength to force it upward—I am fortunate, the hinges are well oiled, and it does not resist my touch—but the movement forces the bullets deeper into me, and I cannot help but groan. I stumble out into the clean air, and step away to allow Sheppard to come out.

I clutch my side with my hand—the warm blood seeps between my fingers, soaks my coat. It takes all the energy I have to stand.

I hear Sheppard gasping for breath. This is too much for him, but I cannot give my life to him just yet. I must get him farther from this place, but I do not know how much longer my strength will hold, for I have almost none left—it is sheer stubbornness that keeps me alive now.

"How far is the Stargate?" he asks. He is tired, I hear it in his voice. I realize that it is night, the time when most humans sleep. He too should be sleeping—he is wounded, and weak from my feeding. He is human. He is a child.

"It will be guarded," I warn him. It would be foolish to go to the stargate. It would be wise to move away from the stargate, wait for his people to rescue him, or for Kolya to relax his guard. It would be wise, but for the fact that I do not know which direction the stargate is in. It has been too many years.

"We've got guns," he replies, and my anger and frustration grows. Guns! Weapons! Force! This is what has led our peoples into this never-ending war. It is the soldiers who followed the queens, those who reached for their guns before they reached for reason, for cunning, for understanding, of each other and of the situation.

"They will be waiting for us," I tell him angrily. I have not lead him out of death only to lead him to death.

"Don't be so negative," he chides me, looking around.

Agony, fiercer than I have felt since I felt the death of my family, erupts within me, and I can stand no longer. I sink onto the edge of the hatch with a cry as the ground sways beneath me and my vision swims, darkness and light eddy like waters before my eyes. Air and blood vie for place in my lungs, and my entrails are little more than dead flesh, an uncooked stew of viscera and muscle in a gravy of blood. I need no healer to tell me this.

"You think you're gonna make it?" I hear him ask, as from a distance, and I wonder, did I hear concern in his voice? Concern for the monster? Or was it only in my fancy, my hope to hear a kind word before I face the Spirits for judgement?

"If I feed," I say truthfully. But it is not a suggestion. I do not desire to feed on Sheppard. I do not desire to feed at all. The burning hunger is dead in me at last, killed by the bullets that are now slowly killing me.

"Well, don't look at me!" he scoffs, clearly worried, and obviously determined not become my prey.

I sigh, and try to stand, reaching out my arm as a counterweight…

But Sheppard thinks I reach for his neck, and I realize I have stretched out my arm in his direction, even as I had pointed my gun at his head. He pulls out his gun, and points it at my head. I stumble back, raising my gun and pointing it at him without thinking. I hold it with my left hand, and there is little chance that my aim would be true, but…

I sway on my feet…I have lost so much blood…

"We make it to the Stargate, we both go our separate ways," he breathes slowly, reasoning, though whether with me or himself, I am unsure.

I nod wearily, and stumble forward. It does not matter which direction I take, so long as it is away from the death hole.

I lurch forward—I either move forward or I will fall down.

If I fall, I will not rise.

If I fall, so may Sheppard.

I will not fail again.