Angela! Yeah!
Notes: Many thanks for the nice comments! I want to answer, but can't remember which ones I've replied to and which ones I haven't, so, uh, collective thanks! I appreciate it, much more than I can say.
Chapter 3: The cowards are in the meadow, lying fast asleep.
Sticky and uncomfortable, they made their way to the centre ground, two golden warriors gleaming in the firelight. Rodney tried not to pull on his loincloth but failed spectacularly, nearly yanking the leathery covering completely off. Low-rise loincloth, the must-have of the season. At least they had been allowed to keep their boxer shorts.
He followed John's perfection and felt ill at ease in his flawed intellect-driven body. He was not beautiful and women's eyes did not follow his awkward movements, something for which he was grateful, tonight. If they wanted to watch Sheppard strut his stuff, they were more than welcome. Not that the Colonel was showing off at all, he was just comfortable in his own skin, wasn't he? So comfortable, he could ram that knife into Rodney's heart in a second. Not that he would. No, certainly not, Colonel Sheppard would rather have Rodney beat him with sticks and plunge the horribly long knife into his flesh, would rather bleed for Rodney than make him bleed. How horrifying…and brave, and selfless, and remarkable and all those other things that drove Rodney insane. McKay fervently hoped it wouldn't come to that, he would not do it, could not, and would forsake them both.
There was no incentive for Rodney to fight. Sheppard was not an enemy, not a threat. It was not something he would later be able to explain and reason. He would never be able to lift the guilt that assailed him whenever he was forced to kill another living being. He couldn't do this, it was not self-defence, no matter how Sheppard rationalised it. Die or kill his best friend? What kind of choices were these?
The villagers formed a large crescent around them, removed from the firelight, concealed in the shadows. John's eyes were fixed on Rodney's and his words ran through Rodney's mind in a circular pattern that mimicked the one they were tracing on the ground.
Follow me, watch me. Remember training, you know how I fight. Move slowly; keep your movements fluid and controlled.
They moved to the left, circling each other with precise steps. Sticks flew through the air with a slight wind; breathing was laboured by tension and fear. The light fell upon them only, the villagers hidden beyond its reach.
Watch and learn, McKay. Watch and learn. Hit, but avoid stomach, head and, uh, my parts.
Rodney had rolled his eyes at the sly grin that had appeared on Sheppard's intent face. He had not voiced his objections further. Sheppard knew his was a ridiculous plan, knew Rodney could never harm him willingly, could not pierce his flesh with the knife, beat him with the heavy sticks, take his life away. He would not be the one to deprive the universe of that stupid, flirtatious grin. He could not kill John Sheppard to save his life!
John held the large sticks tightly in his hands and swung them from the end, forming circles in the air. He moved as Rodney did, to the left, circling, waiting for Rodney to give the signal. When McKay felt confident, he would change the direction of his sticks abruptly and watch for John's attack. He had asked John to initiate the first attack, to help him pretend he was only defending himself. McKay needed to pretend this was not murder but the only way for him to live. John would gladly offer this service.
Rodney just didn't see that, tonight, they were enemies. The friendship they once shared had to be forgotten. Here, with the cooling sand under their feet, by the light of the fire, they were foe. John had always known Rodney did not see things as he should, for these missions. His loyalty ran too deep and made it impossible for him to 'turn the humanity off' as Sheppard, Ronon and Teyla had learned to do. Sheppard was a hypocrite when it came to his team. He would sacrifice himself to see them safe, but would not allow a similar behaviour from them. Rodney was stubbornly screwing up his plan!
McKay gave the signal and John swung his sticks on the horizontal plane from the left to the right, indicating the way Rodney should move to avoid the hit. It was a good show, John was skilled and Rodney certainly tried his best. Sheppard knew Rodney was frightened, but they could do this, they fought together regularly, and although the scientist would never be a master in the art of self-defence, which was mostly what John taught him, he could hold his own. Sheppard was not without fear himself, but he hadn't lied, Rodney could block John easily when it came to known moves, to the routinely familiar. John believed in McKay's abilities, he could do this, if he would only follow orders.
Sweat dripped from the two men, from the exertion of controlling the heavy stick, from fear and the heat of the fire. The crowd was eerily quiet; it didn't fill the Colonel with confidence. If this was entertainment, if it was a night of celebration, should there not be cheering or at the very least idle chatter? Shouldn't voices be covering the sound of the light wind, the sticks cutting through the air and the nearby bonfire crackling?
John attacked with the same rhythm until he could be sure Rodney's mind was focused solely on him and the weapons he yielded. When he knew fear had taken second place in the considerable mind of his opponent, he allowed himself some diversity. It would keep Rodney alert and help them assure the illusion of the fight. He thrust forward aggressively and watched proudly as Rodney moved, his bronzed body sliding away from the sticks without difficulty. He was a good student, quick study.
Sheppard lost himself in the technique, the fluidity of the movement, his muscles moving with remembrance as they were asked to perform familiar tasks. Sheppard could see that Rodney's concentration was solely on him and it made such a difference. No complaints, no longing thoughts for the lab, for the mess hall, for his bed, Rodney was all his; moving with purpose, his eyes hard and piercing, as if John was a problem to be resolved. It was such a visceral experience to be fighting this man; perseverance and strength turning him into a decent fighter. There was no time for play here, there was only this; two men, John Sheppard and Rodney McKay, opposed and unified.
They managed to fool the villagers for longer than John had expected, but when they started showing signs of fatigue, Kenoti stepped forward and stopped the fight. "You are required to fight, not merely offer us your lack of skills! You will both face the Fiery Ones," he said, pointing at the inferno illuminating the centre ground," if you are unwilling to give us what we require. Your traders will be made to pay for their insolence. We have been kind enough to invite them to enjoy this rare event with us, but will not hesitate to take what we are owed from them!"
Rodney frowned but Kenoti's word gained an unbearable weight when Teyla and Ronon were pushed into the light behind him. Kenoti smiled and turned to them, speaking with all the confidence he knew to be deserved, "This has been a peculiar trade, but we are glad you have chosen to stay to witness the Pawak you have brought us put to good use."
Rodney felt the sting of their plan crashing and burning upon him. Ronon and Teyla's faces were hard and set; only their eyes spoke of the shame and guilt they carried.
To McKay and Sheppard they were friends playing the part of owners. To all others they had been honourless traders, deceitful in their attempt to fetch a higher price, but were now accepted as allies. By staying for the night's festivities, they had proved themselves trustworthy and would be free to return to their home in the morrow.
Kenoti and the greeting party they had met earlier had intercepted them before they could reach the gate. He had insisted they join himself and his people in a celebratory feast, following the offering to the dark sky. Teyla and Ronon knew the choice was not theirs. They would have to play the part and allow their friends to come to harm so they could regain the safety of Atlantis.
Kenoti turned back to the fighters. "You will fight or you will be sacrificed tonight. We have always held the offering of Pawak in high regards, but will resort to old practices if we must." Kenoti, Teyla and Ronon retreated to darkness, leaving Sheppard and McKay alone in the confine of the lighted circle.
Eyes wide, Rodney nodded in understanding but never in acceptance. He had lost the confidence he had acquired; he had no hope of rescue and everything to lose. John drew closer to him, under the guise of clasping his shoulder tightly in a sign of friendship, which was accepted by the villagers as normal behaviour; friends said goodbye before beating the snot out of each other. "Do it, take me down," he whispered as he left his handprint on the scientist's shoulder, taking a fine layer of sweat and ointment with him when he removed his palm from the warm skin it had touched.
Rodney couldn't. He had not wanted to harm Kavanagh, not so long ago, and was no more capable of hurting Sheppard. His hands would not be tainted by the blood of the man standing before him.
They circled and circled and circled.
Rodney had thought of nothing but the combat before Kenoti's interruption, but now he thought of nothing but its end. Sheppard's gaze called him, commanded him. A tilt of the head asked too much; do it, take me down, it repeated to him, take me down. Sheppard asking to be incapacitated, letting Rodney seize his strength. He couldn't.
Defeat cried out to John, the face of his friend as familiar as his own, the message there as clear as the spoken word. A decision had been made and it was the wrong one. Rodney had chosen to go against John's wishes, his orders! Sheppard thrust forward, hitting Rodney's thigh with a loud thwap, the small, sharp rocks piercing the skin.
Pain served as a warning, spoke for him. Do it, Rodney, do it, it said, or it will get worse.
The Colonel spoke to McKay through the communicative medium of non-verbal communication. Rodney felt sick, enraged, afraid and sad that this galaxy offered so much in pain and so little in gain. How could he choose to beat a friend in order to avoid a beating himself? How could Sheppard ask this of him? They both knew Rodney was not brave enough, not strong enough to commit such acts.
Defeat, denial, refusal is all Sheppard saw and it infuriated him. Why couldn't Rodney simply follow orders or at least his sense of self-preservation! It was a healthy one, why did it have to hightail it now? It was not a time for fear! John narrowed his eyes, glared in what he hoped a fierce manner that promised Rodney terrible things were he to ignore his duties. Take me down, he thought with all his might, take me the fuck down.
McKay would not. They could all see the events unfold before a decisive move was made. Rodney's features told of forfeit. He no longer held himself in a defensive stance, his posture inviting Sheppard to take him, dispose of him and his life. Sheppard wanted to resist, to be the strongest one, to break McKay's will. Teyla and Ronon itched to end the battle of wills, to take matters into their own hands and go down with the villagers, rather than watch a friend kill another.
John was forced to hit Rodney, to hurt him in the hopes that the scientist would retaliate. Rodney blocked and evaded but never responded. He simply moved and watched John, wide blue eyes screaming out in fear.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Kenoti move. He was assailed momentarily by visions of his life ending in ashes as Rodney cried out, his hand reaching out for him through the flames. No. NO! "Damn it, McKay!"
One stick hit Rodney's in a dull tunk.
Tunk. Tunk tunk. Tunk. Tunk tunk.
He cut through Rodney's defences without difficulties, knowing his technique, expecting the next move. His sticks collided with various parts of Rodney's anatomy leaving small red welts were the rocks pierced the skin. Rodney cried out every time he was struck. He attempted to block but was unable to evade John. McKay was predictable, true to form and easy to defeat.
Sheppard felt the sticks hit, felt Rodney's pain through his cries. Each moan, each pain-filled noise made Sheppard wince. He loved and hated Rodney with the same intensity, in the same instant. One thought ran through his mind and he whispered the words. "I can't kill you. I can't kill you. I can't kill you."
Rodney did not attack, forcing John to take care of the night's event. The Colonel was skilled, he was strong; it was only right that Rodney be the one to fall. A second blow to his left shoulder made him drop one stick. Perhaps his decision to reach for it had been a foolish one, or perhaps John was too involved in the fight. Nevertheless, one of John's sticks collided powerfully with Rodney's face as he made a movement for his own stick. McKay felt the left side of his face throb in pain for only a second. He was jerked backward, falling head first to the sand. It was only his luck that hidden beneath the sand laid a slab of hard rock. Just his luck that his head would find the hardest surface to crash against and would do so roughly, procuring him a first class ticket to unconsciousness.
John watched as Rodney fell, heard the sound of two solids colliding.
"Rodney!" He rushed to his side, pushing away the villagers that attempted to block his path. They had invaded the centre ground when Rodney had fallen. On the edge of his awareness stood Teyla and Ronon fighting to break through the crowd that suddenly enclosed the circle of firelight that had illuminated the night's celebration.
"Take him!" Kenoti ordered to the men closest to John.
John attempted to fight off the hands that seized him. "Rodney!"
There was no movement, no sound coming from Rodney who continued to lie on the ground as John was dragged away. He watched the villagers turn away from his downed team-mate, leaving him alone with his injuries.
"You can't leave him there!" John fought against the strong hold of arms around him until he felt the tip of a knife press into his side.
"Do not struggle!"
"He's injured! His head! There could be brain damage!"
He was thrust forcibly into the hut he and Rodney had left less than an hour ago. He turned towards his guards to find them smirking at him.
"That will facilitate your victory, when he comes back to the world and is ready to fight once more."
The hut flap fell and John was left alone with his rage and his worry. Rodney had…fallen…like a rock.
John held back the mirthless laugh that thought brought forth. Like a rock. Like the rocks that had cut small holes in the skin, like the rock that had made that dreadful sound when Rodney's cranium had encountered it.
Rodney. Had hit his head. Hard.
John let his anger take over, if only for a moment. He picked up the bowl of ointment Rodney had used and contemplated throwing it against the side of the hut. It would hit with an unsatisfying sound and John's blood would boil. It was best to calm down, stay quiet.
No sooner had he reached that decision that a young woman stepped into the hut bearing a tray of food. She regarded him with open curiosity. He watched her too as she brought hot water, "Water to wash the victorious one," she said and left him with a time limit. "Kenoti will come for you once he has tended to his duties."
Duties. That did not bode well. John walked to the bucket. He washed the grit from his skin, entertaining grim thoughts. His hand slid against his skin and uncovered his true colour. He was not a man who would beat another for the sole purpose of saving himself.
No. He was. He would. John washed the bronze from his face.
He was not a man who would beat a friend, a colleague, an innocent for the sole purpose of saving himself.
No! He was. He would. He had! It had been unavoidable! They both would have died if he hadn't acted! Rodney had been afraid; he would not have done a thing. He had gotten that stubborn look.
"Nice, John, real nice. Blame the guy you beat up." He shook his head before repeating softly, "Blame the guy you beat up."
The necessity of his actions did not lessen the guilt he felt.