The stage is set for the climax. Mitchell has formed a lynch mob and is leading them toward Atlantis, John is in hot pursuit and Rodney is alone and despairing in the nearly powerless city. I hope you're ready for the ride!

Chapter 11

Mitchell's horse was blowing hard and trembling. They'd followed the old man's tracks as far as they went, but they ended at a large, rectangular dent in the snow. This must be where Sheppard picked him up in that weird flying thing.

Some of the villagers had tailed off, their enthusiasm or their mounts worn out, but there was still a good group, including the hard core of men that Mitchell knew he could rely on, the ones who were always ripe for violence.

There was a shout from between the trees and one of his men wove his way out of the dense woodland, his torch held aloft.

"This way, Captain. There're buildings 'n' such over here."

Mitchell nodded acknowledgement. "Round everyone up, Yanson. Let's get this done."

Yanson was right. There were buildings, though it would take sharp eyes to spot the first of them, covered in moss and creepers and merging in with their surroundings. Then, as the trees gave up their territory and the structures grew tall, stretching high up into the sky, it was as if a city had suddenly sprung up like a colony of mushrooms. There'd surely be riches in a place like this - things that he could take away and sell. Or, hey, why not take the place as his own? The village was never going to hold him anyway. His father had been content with lording it over a few peasants - Mitchell wanted to be a king. And in this place, he could.

How to get in, though? The towers surrounded them now, so that the soft crunch of hooves in snow was magnified and the torches cast spears of vertical light on the huge structures.

"This looks like a door, Captain!"

One of the men leapt from his mount and began prying at the meeting of two huge doors beneath a curving archway.

"Help him," Mitchell ordered.

The doors gave little resistance, sliding apart slackly. He'd have a crossbar on that when he was in charge, and a couple of bolts. There was plenty of clearance to ride in, though the floor inside was unnaturally smooth and his horse's hooves skittered on the slick surface. Mitchell dismounted and snapped his fingers until someone took his reins. The cavernous space was empty but for a central shaft, with a spiral staircase ascending into the darkness.

"Up here, men!" He waited until five or six had gone before, then followed them up. There was no sense putting himself in harm's way when he had others to take the risks. He'd see what he was up against first - find out what kind of a man this McKay was.

But whether he was a warrior or a coward, a wizard or a hermit, Mitchell intended to see him dead before the night was out.

oOo

Rodney blundered through the darkness, unheeding of his route, walking and walking with no purpose, no destination in mind. He walked because he had nothing left, and if he stopped, the silence and the emptiness would crowd around him until he went mad. But perhaps going mad would be better than this. Maybe then the emptiness would fill with something - some vague, imagined dream in which he might lose himself.

He was already losing his mind, or at least there was something wrong with his vision. The power must be finally drained by now; surely there would be none to send even the tiniest flash of current into the lighting. And yet, through the tall windows, Rodney thought he saw faint flickers in the distant towers. He blinked and they were gone.

He walked on.

And then his mind played more tricks, because it seemed as if there was light somewhere ahead and whispers and murmurs of sound, other than his own feet, dragging his tired body onward in slow but steady rhythm. But it wasn't a trick. That had been a voice - a shout. And there was another, the words faint and uncertain, but definitely, positively there were human voices and lights - warm, yellow, friendly lights!

Rodney's aching feet and legs halted their relentless plod. He listened and blinked into the darkness, trembling with fear that the lights would blink themselves away and the sound have been nothing more than his own wheezing, exhausted breath. No - they were there, both light and voices, they really were there.

John had come back. John loved him. John was here, now, and because he was here - here for Rodney, here for the sake of true and lasting love - the Ancients had seen and fulfilled their promise. They had granted him his reprieve.

He had walked miles; miles and miles and more long miles in his utter, black despair. But now, Rodney ran. He ran toward the light and toward his love and toward a bright, bright future. The lights grew, flaring in his night-adjusted eyes, blinding him. But the voices grew too, drawing him on, luring him toward whoever of the expedition members they might be. He didn't know all their voices, he never had; but he'd get to know them now. All of them, all of their names and their faces and their voices. He'd never forget them.

His feet pounded, echoing down the corridor and out into a glass-sided atrium, and Rodney raced toward the balcony, where he'd be able to see, to look down and see everyone that had awoken from their long sleep, and please, please, John would be there too.

The balcony-rail stopped his headlong flight. Rodney looked down.

"There he is!"

Screams of fear and shouts of anger assaulted his ears. The flaring light and smoke of burning torches stung his eyes.

Then a loud, booming report exploded and at the same time, Rodney's chest erupted in shocking, crushing pain. He staggered backward.

"Kill the beast! Kill the beast!"

Rodney was stumbling and running headlong before he was aware of moving; though, for the bleak despair that engulfed him, a part of him remained on the balcony, waiting for whoever these people were to end his misery. But his instincts took charge; those primitive, deep-ingrained, indelible instincts that make a hunted human run and hide. So, despite his pain and weakness, despite the blood soaking his clothes, Rodney ran and he hid.

oOo

John's horse staggered again. Its sides, drenched in sweat, heaved in and out in rasping, exhausted breaths, and flecks of foam snorted from its mouth and nostrils. The stocky roan had done his best, but John had ridden him hard, far harder than he would usually push any mount. They had reached the outermost towers of the city, but the horse could go no further and limped to a weary halt, its head hanging.

John slid down, crunching through the crust of ice on the surface of the snow. He drew the reins over the horse's head and led it forward.

"C'mon, boy. You can't stay out here. C'mon, now." He clicked his tongue and the animal dragged itself behind him.

John was tired too. His wrist throbbed with relentless pain from the jarring, shaking pursuit and blood had stuck the fine shirt to the once more reopened wounds on his back. Twice they'd passed small groups of riders, slowly heading back to the village, their appetite for violence fled. John had ignored them and ridden on.

And now, it was the very darkest hour of the night, and, even though he knew the way into the city, he would have struggled to find it if it wasn't for the glow of torchlight coming from up ahead. It drew him onward until he came to the open chamber at the bottom of the gigantic tower, the same way he'd entered that first time, when he was so desperately worried about the General. And now he was even more desperately worried.

There was a group of horses and one man had been left to guard them, but was asleep on the ground. He stirred but didn't wake. John left the butcher's roan with the group and, taking the pistol from its holster, began to mount that long, long spiral stair.

Round and round the turning structure John climbed, taking the stairs two at a time, forcing his tired body to keep going, keep pushing against his gasping lungs, to bring him higher and higher.

He reached a level where there were windows and John was surprised to see several areas of the city lit up. He paused, giving his breath a chance to steady, and as he watched, the lights moved in random patterns through the interior of the towers. It was the torches, carried by Mitchell and his men. They were searching. They were looking for Rodney. But John had to find him first.

What would Rodney do when he realised there were intruders in the city? Would he take them on? Did he always carry his stunner weapon? He couldn't stun them all, there were too many. John pushed himself harder.

There was a distant crack and he froze as if he himself had been shot. One gunshot - just one and then silence. What did it mean?

"No, Rodney, no, no, no." He denied the chance, the awful possibility that, with one shot, Mitchell had achieved his goal.

Faint shouts echoed down the halls. John reached the head of the staircase, ran across an open platform and up a slanting way that linked to another tower. The bitter smell of burning pitch tainted the air and long slashes of orange-yellow light led him on. But still there was no more gunfire.

The voices became clearer. John sank into the shadows. The city had been his home for a few days. Now, it was as if he were behind enemy lines once more, a scout sent to spy out the secrets of the opposing army.

"What was that?"

"A beast, like the Captain said!"

"It was just a man."

"A man without a face!"

John's hand clenched hard around his pistol. They'd seen him. They'd seen Rodney and there'd been a shot.

"We should go after them."

"Just one man, though. D'you really think he did all that stuff?"

"The Captain said he did."

"This place is creepy. And that guy's probably dead by now. I'm going back."

John squashed himself into an alcove, his muscles tensing, longing for pursuit.

"Yeah, he won't last long with a shot to the chest."

A blaze of fury and horror threatened to roar out of John's throat.

"C'mon boys, let's go. We can wait for Mitchell with the horses."

Dark figures clumped past, outlined in red from their smoking torches. John waited barely enough time for his own footfalls to be masked by theirs, and then he slipped from his hiding place and disappeared, a shadow blending in with shadows.

oOo

Someone was coming. Someone was following him, pursuing him, tracking him like a hunter would track an injured deer. He could lie down and let himself be caught. Because what was the point in carrying on? A life lived alone in the dark was no life at all.

But something drove Rodney to continue. Even though his chest was on fire and his breath bubbled and rasped, still he kept going. Was he still moving, though? Was this real? Or were his vague, pain-filled thoughts just dying dreams as he lay on the floor and bled out his life?

He was cold, so very cold.

He thought he heard John's voice, but then Radek spoke to him too and he knew Radek was just an old piece of junk, lying on its side waiting for the dust to fall. Other voices called to him out of his past and almost it seemed as if the city cried out to him too. But the city was dead.

Then warmth was around him, warmth and silvery light shining through tall, curving windows. The ground yielded beneath his feet and then it was soft beneath his fallen body and, through the growing numbness in his fingers, there was a whisper of comforting, stroking strands. He could no longer feel any pain. This was a good place, and the right time to die.

oOo

Where was Rodney? How, in the vastness of the city, was John to find him? The atrium stretched up, level upon level. Had Rodney been down here when Mitchell shot him or somewhere up there, on one of those high platforms? Was his blood marking his way through the ancient halls?

John turned in place, the space spinning around him. There was no sign of Radek or Woolsey, Teyla or Ford. There was no sound or light or life. Was the city finally dead? Had all the power finally gone? His pistol pointed hopelessly into the darkness. How could he fight for Rodney, how could he run to the rescue, if he didn't know which way to run?

But there was something he could try. If the city was quite dead, it wouldn't work, but he could try. John stuck the pistol in his belt. He turned away from the empty atrium and leant against the nearest wall. He pressed himself as close as he could, his cheek and one palm laid flat on the smooth surface. And he closed his eyes and let all his thoughts flow toward Rodney - his fear, his desperation to be at his friend's side, and also, his love; because John's fear brought total, stark honesty and if Rodney were to appear right here, right now, he'd tell him, he'd tell him over and over that he loved him, not even caring if Rodney loved him back if only he would just be alive and safe.

There was nothing and more nothing, just a wall and him leaning on it, his body aching with tiredness, his dangling wrist a twisting, jagged hurt. There was nothing there.

Until the faintest flicker of a whisper in John's mind spoke to him of soft earth and the gentle brush of drooping maize flowers on slack, curling fingers.

He thrust himself away from the wall and ran.

oOo

The shot had flown true. This man, this beast, this creature that had somehow captured John Sheppard's heart, would soon be dead. And Mitchell followed him to make sure of that.

A bullet to the chest would finish off most men, but this beast might need another between the eyes, although it was anyone's guess where its eyes were. He shuddered, revolted by the image of the figure as it had leant over the balcony, its seething cauldron of features lit up by the rising flames of the torches. Anything that looked like that was sure to be evil. This time he really was a hero.

The creature had fled, but Mitchell had charged up the stairs, level by level until he'd caught the blood trail, regular splashes on the smooth floor of this weird city. He'd followed them, looking for the telltale glimmer of light sparking on the scattered drops. Each time he'd rounded a corner or clattered down a flight of stairs he'd expected to see a body slumped on the ground. But each time, there had been nothing but dark, dank hallways and a drop here, a splash there. There'd be no blood left in the beast by the time he found it. Maybe then he'd cut off that dreadful head and take it back to the village so the people would know how brave he'd been, all on his own, because none of his men had followed him, the cowards.

But now, the dry, mustiness of the city and the smoke from his torch were mixed with something else. Fresh and green, a waft of earth and growing things reached Mitchell. Was there a way out here? Had the beast stumbled outside to die in the snow?

Yet another patch of blood and a glimpse of white starlight drew Mitchell on, and he found himself in a garden. And there, lying amongst the fallen corn stalks, was a body. Time to finish it off. He threw his torch down and raised his pistol.

oOo

"Drop it, Mitchell."

The silhouetted form twisted, so that John could see those hateful features, drawn back in a triumphant snarl. The eyes glinted with surprise, but the snarl remained. "You should learn to stay where I put you, John Sheppard."

"I said drop it." John held his weapon as steadily as he could, even through the up-and-down heaving of his lungs. But Mitchell also held his gun straight and true, pointed at the eerily still form lying in the dirt amongst the carefully-tended crops.

"I don't think so. I think this animal needs putting out of its misery."

"Drop it or I'll shoot."

"With that old thing? It'll probably explode in your hand."

"It's worth the risk. He's worth the risk." Rodney hadn't moved. White starlight outlined his form, but John couldn't see whether there was any rise and fall of life. Tendrils of smoke drifted up from Mitchell's torch as its last ember died.

"Why? What do you want that ugly beast for when you could have me?"

He'd spit if he could afford the distraction. "You're the ugly one, Mitchell. You're the beast. Not him."

"You're crazy."

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." John's hand shook. His wounds and illness, the Jumper crash, the hard ride - all were taking their toll. And was his vision fading, or were clouds rolling across the stars? "But you want me, though, don't you?"

Mitchell growled.

"So, I'll go with you if you'll leave McKay alone. Put away your weapon and I'll come back to the village with you - come to your house." He could barely see the hated figure now. What was that phrase - always darkest before dawn?

For a moment, he thought it'd work. But Mitchell barked with derisive laughter. "The minute I put this away, you'd shoot me. Wouldn't you?"

John shrugged. "It was worth a try."

Then, as the last glint of starlight on the barrels of both raised weapons blinked out, John hurled himself forward, springing toward Mitchell, sweeping his weapon upward and to one side, feeling the smack of metal against metal, even as a yellow-white flash blinded him and a thunderous shot battered his ears. Another shot fired and a burn grazed his shoulder. John struck out again and, homing in on a cry of pain, swung the butt of his weapon around, resulting in a harsh crack and a grunt.

Then a heavy blow deadened John's arm and there was a thud as his weapon fell from his numb fingers. He was helpless, one arm dangling limp and the other with a broken wrist. He dodged to one side, ducking as a sweep of disturbed air passed over his head. Then he stepped backward as silently as he could.

"Where've you gone, Sheppard?"

John's arm buzzed and tingled. He took another step back, the soft earth damping the sound of his movement.

"Give it up, John. That thing's dead now." Mitchell's footsteps were also muffled and his voice rang through the vegetation, bouncing back from the huge panes of glass, so that it came from all around. "And I'm guessing you didn't have time to break your General out. I'll treat him well if you'll do the same for me."

The voice was closer. Sensation flooded back into his arm. He flexed his fingers. How many shots did Mitchell have left? John bent his knees and waited, ready.

"Come on, Sh-"

John sprang again, his arm outstretched and his hand found the barrel of the gun and forced it upward. A fist thudded into his ribs, but John didn't let go and he blocked another blow with his forearm, the jarring travelling to his wrist and driving a cry of pain from his lungs. He pushed and kicked out and fingers were tearing at his as he clamped them tightly around the weapon. The kick of a pointed toe to his shin made John cry out again, but he brought a leg around and felt it hook around Mitchell's; then he twisted and drove his shoulder into the man's chest, still gripping as hard as he could to the barrel of the pistol.

There was hot breath on his knuckles. Then Mitchell's chest gave beneath his pressure and the man yelled, strong fingers clamped convulsively around John's, clinging for balance. White fire exploded and John's cheek burned in a searing flash. The fingers slid away from his.

He couldn't hear, couldn't think; his knees buckled and he fell. Was this it? Had Mitchell shot him? John's hand was wet and the stink of iron and gunpowder and churned earth took him back to the battlefield, to the dread and the horror and the death. But the battlefields were in the past. He had no men to command, and behind the blood and the sulphur was the sweetness of night-scented flowers.

His whole world was silent and dark. Was he deaf? Was Mitchell creeping closer, ready to beat him down and drag him back to the village? John shivered, but there was no sudden rush of attack, no harsh hands restraining him. His battle-trained instincts remained mute.

"Rodney?" There was no reply and his own voice was a grating, harsh whisper. "Rodney, where are you? I'm here." His injured arm curled close to his chest, John reached out and patted at the earth, at the dry grass and then at a damp, sticky mass which made him draw back sharply. "Rodney. It's me. It's John. I've come back." The darkness and silence was complete. "I've come back."

Then slowly, shapes began to emerge. John rubbed his eyes and blinked, but it was real. A soft, pink light was slowly spreading through the garden, lighting the tall shapes of the crops that Rodney had planted, rippling over the blades of grass, and falling on the heap of slack limbs in front of him and the dreadful, shattered head of Cameron Mitchell, judged harshly by fate, shot by his own weapon as he lost his footing on a bundle of fallen corn-stalks and grasped for balance.

So it was over. And John was neither sorry nor glad, just relieved that the man had shot himself by accident and he hadn't had to do it. He'd done enough killing in his life.

The light strengthened and he crawled across the grass to Rodney's side and, pulling at his clothes, rolled him over.

And John looked, for the first time, at the face of the man he loved.

His eyes were as blue as John had imagined; as blue as those flashing glimpses he had caught behind that terrible, punishing mask. His nose was straight and sharp and maybe sometimes Rodney would look down it in disdain, or perhaps it would twitch either with impatience or when he was hot on the scent of a solution. His mouth was a crooked slash that might droop in dismay, or flatten out in determination, or curl up at both corners and spread out into a wide, silly grin. He was beautiful. But that was no more than John had already known.

With a pain in his heart far greater than any in his body, John bent down and gathered Rodney into his arms and held his head to his chest and rocked him and soothed him with words he knew very well that Rodney could no longer hear.

Because it was too late. He was dead.

The sun rose on a new day, but John's heart stayed behind in the darkness. Rodney was dead.

There was no one there to see, and even if there had been, John was long past caring. He let the tears run down his face and fall on Rodney's pale, cold skin and mingle with the blood that soaked his clothes. And as he held his friend's body and rubbed his cheek against the top of his head and kissed his hair again and again, the reality of what had happened sunk deeper and deeper into John's understanding so that his thoughts ran into a future that might have been his and was now lost forever.

And then his grief became shot through with veins of red hot anger, growing and seething inside him like rivers of lava. With trembling arms, he took off his coat, folded it up and slid it beneath Rodney's head. He brushed back the hair from the dead man's forehead, which seemed to grow colder with every passing moment. And then John stood.

The sun had disappeared behind a flat sheet of white cloud. The light was cold and stark and real and John had no more adrenaline to cover up his pain and exhaustion. His wrist was swollen and his breath hitched as he cradled it to his chest; he groaned at the sudden flare from the glancing gunshot on his shoulder and the reawakened throb of the wounds on his back. He shook from exhaustion and hunger and thirst.

At his feet, Rodney lay, his head pillowed on John's coat, his eyes closed, asleep not just for a few refreshing hours, but for eternity.

But John said, "No."

He looked up through the glass which curved way overhead to meet the side of the tower, he glared accusingly at the blank, white sky and he said, "No."

His mouth was dry, his head spun and his heart was so full that the words he needed were far too few or far too many and none of them made sense. But again he said, "No."

Were they up there? Were they all around? Did they know? Were they happy with what they'd done? Who were they anyway? Who were they to judge?

"I know you're there," John rasped. And then, louder, "I know you're there!" He coughed and swallowed, his tongue thick and clumsy. "Is this what you wanted? Is this good for you?"

His words rang, bouncing back from the glass and returning in a faint, mocking echo.

"You think he's got what he deserves, is that right?"

John turned in place, his neck craned back to glare into the sky, the tower spinning in and out of his vision. He stopped, staggered and rubbed his eyes.

"He was just a man," he said, looking down at Rodney, at his hands - those lively, snapping, clapping, fluttering expressive hands, which now lay limp, the fingers curled inward. They could no longer grasp at life; life had slipped through Rodney's fingers and disappeared into the deep layer of earth which he, all alone, had brought into the city to create this beautiful garden.

"He was just a man!" John shouted to the sky. "He made a mistake! And you punished him and you punished everyone here - everyone, whether they deserved it or not. Yeah, you're right - he made a mistake. You're right - he was selfish. He wanted to keep the city and everything in it for himself. But he made a mistake because he's human!" John's voice cracked and his throat ached with sorrow, but he carried on. "He's… he was human. And what I want to know is - what's your excuse? You left this place and you think it's okay to control the people who found it? The people who made it their home after you? You think you're still in charge here? And that it's okay for you to judge? To set yourself up as Gods? That is not okay! It's wrong! It's all wrong! You were wrong!"

John fell to his knees next to the body of his friend, shattered with grief. He laid his hand on Rodney's forehead, which was now as cold as stone.

"He was just a man." John inhaled a jerky, hitching breath and let it slide out of his trembling, weary body. "But I loved him."

Then he lay down on the ground next to Rodney, pressed up as close to him as he could, rested his injured arm over the motionless, bloody chest and tucked his head in the space between Rodney's neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes.

In a while, he'd get up and he'd bury the body right here, in the garden, and he'd move some of the flowers to surround it and he'd find something to make a headstone. He'd do all the stuff people do when they've lost a loved-one; the practical things that have to be done and make it feel like there's something you can do to ease the pain. But everyone really knows you can't.

He'd take Mitchell's body out and dump it in the forest for the wolves. Or no, he wouldn't even do that. What would be the point? He'd sling it over the back of the butcher's roan and take it back to the village, to the Mayor, Mitchell's father, so he could do his own grieving and his own practical things which wouldn't, in the end, make any difference.

And then John would get the General and they'd go home and maybe in the spring they'd move on, or John would go up to the city and find out if there were any wars being fought that he could sign up for.

He'd do all those things. But for now, he'd just lie here, just for a bit longer, next to Rodney McKay, who would never know that he had been loved.