The General is in danger, and John is flying to the rescue, leaving Rodney all alone…

Chapter 10

The little ship responded to John's urgency, rising quickly up the chimney-like exit and swooping down over the towers of the city and then lower, to skim just above the tops of the trees. It was too fast - they'd miss the General. John couldn't possibly spot him and Ronon at this speed in the ghostly moonlight.

A display sprang into life across the viewscreen, showing moving points in the forest ahead - a large and a smaller glow, surrounded by a cluster of darting points of light.

"Huh. Thanks."

It was easy then, and as John slowed down and hovered over the clearing, the cluster broke apart and fled and the smallest life signs disappeared out of range. He landed, lowered the hatch, leapt from his seat and pelted down the ramp.

"Hold it right there!"

John froze and put up his hands.

"I've got you covered with my rifle, so don't you try anything."

He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "General, it's me. It's John."

"John? Son?"

"Yeah, come to rescue you in the nick of time."

There was a heavy crunch as the dark figure slid off his horse's back and into the snow and then the General came into the pool of light and John was engulfed in a cold, wet hug, which wasn't quite as crushing as he would have liked.

"You're freezing, Pops. Come inside." He led the old man up the ramp and guided him to one of the bench seats, where he collapsed with a grateful gasp.

"What is this thing, John? How can it fly? Where did it come from?"

"It came from the city. I'm not really sure how it flies, but it's a good thing it does or the wolves would have had a feast."

The General shivered and wrapped his arms around his body. "There were drifts all along the road. We kept having to go round, find another path. A couple of times Ronon just had to push through. We've been going all day."

No wonder the old man was exhausted. And his mount. "I'll get Ronon."

The horse was stamping back and forth at the bottom of the ramp, snorting and blowing, his flanks trembling with fear.

"Easy there, buddy." John took hold of his bridle and ran a soothing hand down the frightened animal's neck. "Let's get you into the warm, hey? Can we do that?"

Ronon blew a hot breath in John's ear and flung up his head.

"Come on, up you come."

He led Ronon forward slowly. If he couldn't get the horse into the Jumper, the only option would be to leave him behind and his chances of finding his own way home weren't good after a whole day out in the cold. But Ronon had lived through the horror of battle. He would follow his rider, whether afraid or not. He stamped on the ramp, his hooves making great clanging thuds, then he shook his mane and walked calmly into the little ship.

The General reached up to pat him on the nose.

John closed the hatch. "What are you doing, coming up here anyway? I told you I'd get out."

"Mitchell's been causing trouble."

John gritted his teeth as the General told him what had happened. "We'll get you back to the farm, and then I'll be having a few words with our so-gallant Captain."

The General shook his head, wearily. "It's not worth it, John. We'll sell up and move on as soon as the thaw comes." He sniffed and pulled out a damp handkerchief. "He won't try anything when he sees this flying machine. If he needs proof that I wasn't making up my story, here it is."

"Hm. We'll see." Mitchell would make trouble of one sort or another - he didn't need an excuse.

John sat down in the pilot's seat. The ship took off smoothly and the forest slid past beneath. He should say something about Rodney. And that he wasn't coming back to the farm, that he wouldn't be moving on with the General.

Rodney wanted him to come back to Atlantis - he'd made that clear. Hadn't he? But he'd already said John was no longer a prisoner before they knew the General was in trouble; Rodney had said he could go, when he was ready. Had he just wanted a companion for a few days then, before getting back to his work? Or did he really want John to stay, to make Atlantis his home, but was afraid to ask?

John had made his interest clear. He'd said he just wanted to see the General safe and then they could 'do stuff.' That wasn't very clear, though, was it? Rodney had said, 'You're really bad at this, aren't you?' and he was right. Put him on a smoke-filled battlefield surrounded by the thunder of guns, and he could inspire and direct his troops with just a few pithy phrases and hand signals; ask him to talk about his feelings, however and John floundered in a sea of vague impressions and half-forgotten words. He was bad at talking about how he felt, and more or less hopeless at making out what others felt about him, unless they told him in a few very direct words. Which Rodney hadn't.

But he'd seen Rodney's face. In that brief, magical moment, when the light through the stained glass window had refracted and somehow penetrated that chaotic mask, he'd seen the blue eyes clearly, the sharp, inquisitive nose, the crooked mouth from which anger and impatience, arrogance and awkwardness had come, but also excitement and eagerness and, though Rodney might deny it, compassion and caring.

And then those agile hands had roamed over his chest. Rodney wanted him; that, at least, didn't need to be put into words. But did he want him just for now, or forever?

The console flickered and John felt a jolt in their flight. He'd better concentrate. Getting distracted was a bad thing in a ship that relied on a mental link.

The forest was petering out, the white patches of snow growing bigger as they approached the open pastureland. They'd soon be at the farm. If he slowed right down he could land in the yard, outside the barn. The barn door had been open when he'd seen the farm from Atlantis. Mitchell and his men had better not have done any damage to the place.

The console flickered again and another jolt was followed by a shift in John's mind and a lurch to one side which nearly threw him from the seat.

In the rear compartment, Ronon stamped and the General called out in alarm. John spread his hands on the controls and fought to keep the ship on course. They were going too fast. They'd overshoot the farm. The seat fell away beneath him and he landed hard with a painful clack of his teeth.

"John? What's happening?"

"Hold onto something!" He couldn't control it. The power was failing; surges alternated with total cut-outs where the ship dropped like a stone. Where were they? Had they passed the farm already? There was another violent lurch, the lights flashed on and off and then there was nothing - nothing in John's mind to hold together, to keep them flying. "We're going down!"

The viewscreen filled with an expanse of white and then John was hurled forward out of his seat and he flung up his arms to protect his head. There was a sharp pain in his left wrist, his back hit something hard and then he was being forced into a narrow space that shook and juddered, and all around him was darkness and noise and confusion.

Then the juddering stopped, and the compressing force eased away. But the noise went on - banging and stamping and wild, terrified screams. John slid back from the angle between the console and the viewscreen, dazed and weak. He tumbled slackly over the controls, his head spinning.

The thudding and squealing continued. John slid off the console and landed sprawled across the pilot's seat.

"Ronon."

A breeze flicked past his face and he recoiled.

"Ronon!" John put out a hand to push himself up and cried out as pain shot from his wrist. The breeze flicked past his face again and there was a cracking thud as a hoof hit the edge of the console. John sat up slowly, cradling his arm. "Ronon, it's okay. You're okay."

The horse wasn't convinced. A blow smashed into the back of John's seat. The door control - where would it be? He'd just had to think it before, but now the ship was lifeless. He felt around underneath the console, his hand flapping against nothing. No - there; there was a handle. He pulled it and there was a sudden blast of cold air and a faint, grey light. Ronon twisted around and bolted.

John sagged back in the chair. The horse would run off his fright and then head back to the farm. He might be injured, but there was nothing John could do about that right now.

"General?" John slid out of his seat, cautiously straightening up. Everything ached and it felt like the wolves had been tearing into his back again. He flexed his left wrist slightly and regretted it, gasping at the bolt of agony. "General, are you okay?"

John stumbled into the rear compartment, shivering from the cold blast that seared through his thin shirt. There was a dark, huddled shape on the floor. He dropped to his knees.

"General?" He patted the still form, found his neck and felt for a pulse. It was there, faint but steady. John slid his hand up over the General's head, feeling wetness and a developing lump. Was this his only injury, though? How could he tell, in the dark, with only one hand? Freezing wind blasted in over the lowered ramp.

Then John could see more clearly - the General's pale face, the shallow rise and fall of his chest and a glint of light on the blood slowly trickling over his scalp. A yellow flood spread over the grid-pattern floor of the little ship. He turned around. Out of the darkness came flaming points of light and voices rang in the still air. Help was coming. John sagged with relief.

The voices came closer and then light was all around him.

"John Sheppard!" It was the last person he wanted; the last man he'd want around at any time. "Well, well. It looks like you'll be needing my protection after all."

"Mitchell."

oOo

It was all working out rather well. Admittedly it had been a surprising development when the strange flying machine crash-landed in the field where the children had been sledging, and even more surprising that it contained the missing General and Mitchell's long-intended lover. But suddenly, Cameron Mitchell could see a future where, as was only right, he had everything he wanted.

He'd thoroughly enjoyed taking charge of the situation, snapping his fingers and giving orders like the military man he pretended to be. The General had been swiftly borne away to the comforts of the Mayor's house and, of course, Mitchell was only too pleased to assist the injured John Sheppard to follow more slowly behind. The man was clad in just a torn shirt and admirably tight pants - little to protect him from the bitter winter's night, and so Mitchell actually took off his own coat and wrapped it around Sheppard, even though he regretted the thick layer of fur and fabric that came between him and that delightful body.

He pulled Sheppard's arm over his shoulder.

"I'm okay, I don't need help."

"Of course you need help, John. And I'm happy to give it." And once he had the man in his father's house Mitchell would make sure he didn't leave.

John tried to pull away. "I need to get back to the farm. Ronon could be hurt and he'll go back there."

"My men will see to it." He dismissed this concern, tightened his grip around John's shoulders and steered him over the snowy field. "Now, tell me what that thing was - that flying machine. Where did it come from?"

"It came from the city. The city that you wouldn't believe in."

He tried to pull away again, but Mitchell kept a firm grip. He wasn't letting go now, not when he was so close to his goal.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe the General. But you've got to admit, it was a pretty tall tale."

"You should know he wouldn't lie."

"I obviously don't know your General as well as I should. But I'll have a chance to get to know him better now. To get to know you both, in fact." He gave John an extra squeeze.

"We'll be heading back to the farm as soon as the General's able. And I'll be heading back up to the city."

This was unexpected. "Back to the city? You've only just escaped!"

"I wasn't a prisoner."

"But, the General said -"

"Okay, yeah, for a while I was. But then I got to know McKay."

A snake stirred in Mitchell's gut. They had reached the marketplace, but John's face was turned away from the torches which lit the front of the inn. What was he hiding?

"McKay? Is that the General's mysterious wizard?"

"He's no wizard. He's a scientist. Dr Rodney McKay."

Still he couldn't see John's face. His voice, though - what was that tone? "This Dr McKay lives in the city alone?"

"Kind of."

"Why? Why does he not make himself known to us? Why does he hide himself away?"

"Oh, you know. He has his problems."

"He sounds like a dangerous man."

"No! Why? He's not dangerous! He's… well, he's pretty amazing."

The snake rose and grew into a serpent writhing in Mitchell's chest. "A handsome man, I suppose?"

"Uh, well… He had an accident. So…"

"He's deformed? Is that why he hides? Because he's hideous?"

"No! He's not ugly! Look, it doesn't matter, I'm going back there as soon as I can. If I have to, I'll take the General with me."

Determination rang clear in the man's voice. John Sheppard was going to leave, was going to slip through Mitchell's closing grasp. This McKay - maybe he was a wizard. Maybe the old tales were true and he'd enchanted the beautiful young man to lure him in and entrap him in some moldering ruinous pile. Because John's words didn't matter - it was the emotion behind them that stood out like one of the torches outside the Mayor's house. John Sheppard was in love. Over and over again, he'd rejected Mitchell's advances; he'd rejected the most handsome, popular, admired man in all the village and its surrounding countryside, and for what? So he could fall in love with some hideously deformed recluse?

John winced. "Let me go, Mitchell. I can make it from here."

He released his possessive grip, but made sure John entered the house before him. Then he took his head manservant to one side and gave a series of firm commands: that Sheppard and the General should be installed in two of the finest bedchambers, that their injuries should be attended to, and finally that their doors should be securely locked.

John was led away. And then Captain Cameron Mitchell stood for a moment, in the grand entrance of his father's house, the red-carpeted staircase rising before him, the chandelier with its multitude of pure wax candles lighting the huge space, glinting off the gilt picture frames and the shining wood of the panelling. All of this was his, or would be his when the old Mayor was dead. All of it and more - any woman in the village, his for the taking and a fair few of the men. Except for John Sheppard.

He growled, deep within his broad chest. Sheppard was his. His by right, just as this house and all its wealth were his. He'd have him, willing or not, and there would be no other man, no Dr McKay for John to dream about when Mitchell finally pinned him to his bed, tied him if he had to, and did what he'd wanted to do for so long.

He marched briskly to the arms locker and took out a rifle and his duelling pistols. He'd raise the village. He'd raise all the people of the village from their peaceful slumber and stir them to a fever-pitch of fear and hatred. He'd tell them a tale of a wicked enchanter, from whom Sheppard and the General had barely escaped with their lives. He'd weave in threads of missing children from other villages, daughters and wives raped, livestock killed; he'd conjure up a monster, a beast that would strike terror into the simple hearts and minds of these stupid, gullible people. He would make them so fearful that they'd follow him; they'd arm themselves and follow him out into the cold and darkness and up through the forest. And then they'd come to the lost city and they'd find this Dr McKay and, in their fear and hatred, they'd tear him to pieces.

oOo

"Why can't I see him?"

The doctor wound the bandage once more around John's wrist and then tied it off. "Because the General is concussed and needs rest and quiet, Mr Sheppard, as I've already told you. And you need rest too."

"I'm fine."

"Really?" Grey eyes regarded him over the top of half-moon glasses. "And I thought I was the doctor." He began packing his things back into his black leather bag. "You need to look after that wrist - make sure you don't use it for a week or two. And make sure you don't open those cuts on your back again. They should've been stitched first time around!"

John fiddled with the tie of the rich, quilted dressing gown he'd been given. It probably cost the same as ten sheep or more.

"Don't worry about the General, young man. He'll be fine." The doctor patted him on the shoulder and trod softly out of the bedchamber.

John decided he would go and check on the General, regardless of what the doctor said. He wasn't going to be able to sleep without seeing for himself. A rasping click came from the door. He got stiffly to his feet and stumbled across the room to try the handle. It turned uselessly. The door was locked.

"Mitchell!" He banged on the wood panelling. "Mitchell, open the goddamn door!" There was no answer. Why had Mitchell locked him in? Were he and the General prisoners now?

John leant against the unmoving slab of oak, his forehead and the flat of one hand taking his weight. He closed his eyes. Maybe the doctor was right. He should rest. It was the middle of the night, following a long, eventful day. And what else could he do? He slid the dressing gown off one shoulder and then carefully drew it off over his injured wrist, dropping the garment on a chair next to the fire. He stood in front of the homely, comforting glow for a moment, soaking up its blessing of heat.

A mass of images tumbled through John's tired mind: the library on Atlantis, the gardens, Rodney. Rodney talking, his hands waving or tapping or grabbing John and pulling him along; Rodney bringing him food and books, reading with him, explaining things; Rodney caring for him, sleeping next to him, touching him; and Rodney's face as he had seen it in that here-and-gone, tantalising glimpse.

What was he doing now? Did he think John wasn't coming back? John sat down on the edge of the high, luxurious bed. The silky fabric of the nightshirt he'd been given was light and smooth against his skin and he shivered at the thought of Rodney drawing it off over his head. But it wouldn't be Rodney. If he didn't get out of this place, it would be Mitchell. John shivered again, but with revulsion.

He pulled back the thick layer of covers. The bed was soft and inviting - probably the most comfortable bed he'd ever had the chance to sleep in. He was very tired and, though well within the category headed 'fine' - in his opinion at least - it would be nice to relax all of his aching and bruised muscles and let the world drift away for a while.

He blew out the lamp and got into bed. The fire was low, casting a semi-circle of red onto the patterned carpet. But there was a line of brighter light at the edge of the heavy brocade curtains. It disappeared and then returned again. The window was at the side of the house that joined onto the Town Hall, a grand building that John had always thought looked a bit silly in the little marketplace. Nobody would be in the Hall at this time of night, so the light wasn't coming from there. Surely it was too late for people to be coming home from the inn? The light intensified, showing through the fabric of the curtain.

Something was wrong. John got up, drew the curtain a little way and pressed his face to the glass to see down into the marketplace. The view was rippled and distorted with his sidelong view through the uneven pane, but he was startled to see a large gathering of men and women, most on horseback, carrying torches. And at their centre was Cameron Mitchell, mounted on his powerful grey, that twitched and sidestepped at the close proximity of the flame. What was he doing? Why had he raised the village?

Shouts drifted up from the crowd. John unlatched the window and raised it just a little.

"Kill the beast! Kill the beast!"

Kill the beast? No. No, surely Mitchell wouldn't do that. John gripped the windowsill, frozen with horror.

"Ride with me!" Mitchell yelled, his voice deep and commanding. "Ride with me now and we will be free of this evil curse!"

There was a roar of approval from the crowd and then they streamed out of the marketplace, and the yellow light on the churned-up snow faded into darkness.

John's bare feet thudded on the floor. He wrenched at the door handle and banged and yelled. There was no response and no way he could break down such a solid piece of wood. It would have to be the window. But first he needed clothes.

He flung open the doors of the grandly-carved wardrobe that stood in the corner of the room. It was packed full of clothes in rich fabrics. They all looked new. He pulled out a hangar which held a suit in dark purple velvet. Was it Mitchell's? John had never seen him wear it. He'd look ridiculous. And it was a bit on the small side for Mitchell's muscled physique. John's stomach twisted with distaste. He turned and looked in the full-length mirror, holding the jacket up against himself. It could have been made-to-measure.

He flung it on the floor, sickened at the thought of Mitchell preparing for John's installation at his house, studying him closely enough to be able to guess so accurately at his measurements. But he had to wear something. He sorted through the close-packed garments and took out anything dark-coloured and practical. There were even boots in the bottom of the wardrobe, better cut than any he'd ever been able to afford.

It was difficult getting dressed with only one hand and John dreaded the thought of climbing out of the window. But he had to and he had to be quick about it. He couldn't let them get to Rodney, couldn't let them hurt him.

He stuffed a pair of gloves in his coat pocket and slid the window up completely. The passage between the Mayor's house and the Town Hall was topped with a pitched roof, the apex of which was about five feet below him. Landing astride it was definitely to be avoided. He sat on the window ledge and twisted around and then slithered over the edge until his full weight was hanging on his right arm. His newly-stitched back burned with pain, but his feet found the ridge tiles and he let them take his weight. Then he let go of his handhold and leant against the wall, slowly bending his knees to ease his body lower. If he could sit down on the ridge he'd try to slide gradually down the steeply pitched roof.

But the new boots had shiny, unworn soles. One of them slipped, he lost his balance and instead of a controlled descent, John hurtled down the roof, smashed through the guttering and flew out into the air. Then the breath was knocked out of his lungs and freezing wetness covered his face. He inhaled snow, coughed and choked and then struggled out of the snowdrift, stamping and brushing the powder from his clothes before it melted and soaked the fabric. His wrist throbbed in time with his pounding heart and his back flared angrily. So much for being 'fine'. John tucked his arm between the buttons of his coat and ran across the marketplace toward the inn, skidding on the cobblestones where snow had melted and refrozen into treacherous ice.

The inn was in darkness. But entering the stableyard through the arched entrance, John could hear the shuffle of hooves and soft snorts. He trod softly along the line of split doors, all closed for the night. He needed a tough animal, one that he could ride hard and fast, so the fine-looking mare in the first box was no good, nor the pony that the innkeeper's children rode. The butcher's roan - he would do the job. But where was his harness and how on earth was John to get it on the animal with only one hand? In his mind, he heard the relentless hoof-beats of Mitchell and the blood-thirsty crowd, set on stamping out the threat to their families.

There was a scrape behind him and he spun around.

A lamp was suddenly unshuttered and John flung up a hand to shield his eyes.

"What are you up to, John Sheppard?"

He lowered his hand and squinted against the light. "Nelintha?"

"Yes, it's me." The light lowered and John could see the barmaid, a blanket around her shoulders against the bitter cold. "I never thought you'd turn horse-thief, John."

Her accusation didn't sound particularly threatening and there was no ratcheting weapon. He'd always liked Nelintha, even though he'd seen her disappearing up the inn stairs with Mitchell more than once. "I just need to borrow him, Nel."

"What for? You going up the hill to join in the fighting?"

"No! I mean, yes, I'm going, but I'm going to stop them. Mitchell's wrong. McKay's no threat!" She wouldn't believe him. She'd rouse the innkeeper and John would end the night in the lock-up. And probably be bailed-out by Mitchell.

"I'll get his harness."

"What?"

"I'm helping you, John. I…" She twisted a fold of her apron in one hand. "I'm pregnant. It's Cameron Mitchell's."

"Oh."

"He won't help. Told me to get rid of it."

"I'm sorry, Nel. Can I do anything?"

"Just stop him. Stop him hurting anyone else, John. Here, hold this."

John took the lantern and watched as she fetched the harness and tacked up the sturdy cob.

"What's wrong with your arm?"

It was still tucked into his coat. "Uh, sprained wrist. Maybe broken. The doc wasn't sure."

"Riding's not going to do it any good."

"No."

"Have you got a weapon?"

He shook his head.

"Wait there."

He scrambled awkwardly up into the saddle. Nelintha came back with a heavy old pistol, which she tucked into the saddle holster. "It works," she said.

"Thanks, Nel."

"Stop him, John. I thought I loved him, but… I suppose I always knew he was bad inside, really. He's a man that needs stopping."

He nodded. "I'll do my best." Then he rode out beneath the arch, urged the cob to a trot through the marketplace, then kicked him into a ground-eating canter, up the road and past the General's farm and on, higher and higher, toward the forest.

oOo

The city was silent. As silent as he had ever known it. Even the wind that whistled around the towers had dropped.

Rodney's dragging footsteps had led him on and on through the empty, silent hallways and down and ever down the twisting stairs, deep into the heart of Atlantis. Soon the heart of the Ancient city would stop beating and Rodney felt that, in that moment, his own heart would stop beating too.

Finally, inevitably, he came to the ZPM room, that place that had once shone with the golden light of three wonderful crystalline forms. But now, it was so very nearly utterly dark, so very nearly devoid of all power and life. The dark red circle of the failing ZPM was so faint that it could have been merely a trick of weary eyes, the desperate longing of a worn-down, ground-down soul.

"For I will take the power you hoarded for yourselves, all except one of your golden crystals. The least of them will be left to you, slowly losing its power over the long, empty years until you have but bitter cold and endless darkness left to hoard within your hateful realm."

Rodney's voice cracked and broke over the words that he had written, the words in which the Ancient had condemned him, all those long years ago. They had come true, almost. When the last vestige of power had drained away and the light finally went out, he would be left alone in the bitter cold and endless darkness.

John was gone. He wouldn't come back.

Rodney turned and his shuffling steps led him away, because he didn't want to see when the light finally failed, he didn't want to know when his time of endless darkness had begun.

In the end, he had found true and lasting love. But love hadn't found him.

Because John had gone. And he wouldn't come back.

Have faith, Rodney! John is on his way. But so is Mitchell…

Get ready for the climax to the story. On Sunday I'm going to post the two final chapters together, because I think it would be cruelty to readers to make you wait. Enough said.