Chapter 5
Something pulls him back to consciousness. Once again, he grabs at the final hold and clings to it, not letting go. He listens to the soundless night, trying to find out what pulled him back and saved him from letting go. Whatever it was, he's thankful. The silent night remains as such, a soft wind sobs gently through the forest and scampers across his cold skin. He savours the feeling, for he doesn't know if it will be the last.
He feels like he's living a nightmare, but he knows it is reality. He knows it, but he doesn't want to accept it. He wants to believe that it's all a dream and that he'll wake from it gasping at any moment. He knows that he won't. He isn't going to wake up in his quarters back at the SGC and know that he's safe, that he isn't dying, but that he is dreaming. He's not.
He's had nightmares before. He's had vivid, terrifying nightmares that yanked him from sleep screaming. He still remembers most of them. The memory is a strange thing. It can selectively decide what it wants to recall, and it can store heaps of information. It can haunt a person for the rest of his life by recalling a traumatic event.
This event, should he escape alive will be one of those. It'll be an event that he won't be able to forget. He won't be able to push it away. It'll give him nightmares. He knows that it will for it is one of those things that does not happen often, but when it does, it doesn't wish to be forgotten. It doesn't have to be afraid of being forgotten; he'll never forget it.
His ears search the silence, listening for an explanation as to why he was pulled back from the edge of the abyss. He hears nothing, and it's too dark to see anything. He's helpless, he's said it time and time again, but it's the truth. He is helpless and he doesn't like it.
There! There was a sound, he's sure that he heard it. It had been the sound of a snapping branch, or the crunching of leaves beneath feet. It was there, he knows that there is something there. He listens again and hears soft, hushed voices coming toward him. He can't recognize any of them. To him, the voices are only murmuring, faded and far off, but they're drawing nearer to him. He listens. He hears. He continues to listen. The voices stop.
He's puzzled, confused. There had been voices only moments before. He's sure of it. Another tear falls on his cheek. He wants to brush it away, but he's too weak. His hand will not lift. He draws in a shuddering breath, winces with pain and falls still.
He listens.
He hears.
He continues to listen.
The voices begin again, soft and urgent. They are coming closer; he blinks in the night, a slow motion that clears his hazy vision. He watches. He sees. A shadowy figure emerges from the darkness of the forest; a small flashlight rests on the barrel of a gun and it is passed over his death-chilled body. Who is it? Jonas closes his eyes, not wanting to leave himself vulnerable should the enemy be watching.
Footsteps, quick and light hurry over to him. A presence drops to the ground next to his right shoulder. A small hand, chilled from the night air brushes across his cheek.
"Jonas?" The voice is soft, kind, and gentle. He recognizes it as Lieutenant Thrush from SG-3.
He dares to slowly slide his eyes open to stare into the small, oval face of the blonde haired woman leaning over him. She smiles sympathetically. Jonas coughs painfully, but returns the smile.
"How do you get into these situations?" Colonel Weatherly questions gently.
He wants to respond, but can't find the strength within himself to do so. He blinks, for he can do nothing more. Weatherly busies himself by examining Jonas's wounds. He pulls gauze from out of his field pack and presses it against the bleeding holes.
"Hold that there, Lieutenant." Weatherly replies, his eyes flitting to Lieutenant Thrush. The blonde nods and presses her hand over the gauze. Jonas grimaces at the pressure and she smiles again. It's a soft, friendly smile, meant to reassure.
The reassurance doesn't work, but he allows himself a small feeling of hope. Perhaps he's going to get out of this after all. Wait! His team, they're captured!
He opens his mouth to speak and forces the words through his tight vocal chords. The words are barely a whisper, and Thrush has to lean closer to hear what he says. Her blonde ponytail falls over her shoulder and brushes against Jonas's cheek.
"What?" She asks, her voice is confused.
"The…team." He replies weakly, his voice scratches painfully in his throat.
"Your team? SG-1?" She asks.
Jonas nods, it's a jerky movement ending almost before it begins.
"What about them?"
"Captured." He says.
There's a gasp from Thrush.
"By who? Where are they?" She wonders.
Jonas shrugs and his injuries pull, he whimpers, but keeps the threatening tears behind his eyes.
"Sir, SG-1's been captured." Thrush speaks, her voice is loud and it rings painfully in Jonas's ears.
"They must be in the town dungeon." Weatherly replies.
A dungeon? Who has dungeons any more? Dungeons are something heard about in fairy tales, fairy tales with happy endings.
Jonas longs for a happy ending, and although his hope is slightly lifted, he can't bring himself to accept that his current predicament is going to lead to a happy ending. His mind won't let him accept it, yet his heart tells him that there's a possibility. There's a small possibility that this might turn out to be okay.
A small possibility. How small? Jonas has had small possibilities come true before, but maybe that was just luck. Luck follows him around, but at the moment, it seems as though luck has abandoned him. Luck has left him alone in the dark, shivering with the approach of death and it will not look back at his helpless form lying prone on the cold ground.
He wonders how long it's been since his life started to leave him. It was before darkness fell, and it was after five. He doesn't know how long ago that was. He's afraid, even with SG-3 hovering nearby, he's afraid. He isn't ready to leave life behind.
He wants to see the sun again; he wants to wake up fresh to another morning. He wants to relax in the evening with a good book in his lap. He wants to talk to his friends again. He's grown accustomed to Colonel O'Neill's teasing, he believes that he is finally gaining the older man's trust and that means the world to him. He wants to see a full moon rise over a distant horizon and he wants to walk in the rain. He isn't ready to go.
A hand on his shoulder grabs his attention. While his thoughts were wandering, he was slipping away from life. The final string had nearly broken and he wasn't even aware of it. He coughs and pain rips through him, tears gather in the corners of his eyes, he lets them fall. He doesn't care who sees them anymore; he can't wait for the storm to pass any longer, for it is hovering over him. It is much too close and there is no calm in sight.
"Jonas, hang in there. We'll get you home, and we'll get your team home. Just hold on." Lieutenant Aerous replies. The young man is on his left, watching him through concerned brown eyes that shimmer with sympathy.
Hold on. Jonas wants to hold on, he really does, but every time he lets his mind wander, his grasp slips and he nearly plunges into an endless darkness that is waiting to swallow him up. He's been in bad situations in the past, but none as bad as this. This is enough to do him for the past, the present and the future.
He can't see the future, but he can predict what will happen and hope that it doesn't come true. He can see the past and the present. The past is taunting him, flashing before his eyes, laughing at him, mocking his pain, and waiting to devour him.
He slips again and almost falls, but a hand grabs his and keeps him grounded. He re-grabs onto life and holds on with all the strength he has left in him. He opens his heavy eyes once again and sees Sergeant Bromwell holding his hand in hers. She's keeping him in the land of the living. Her dark hair covers her forehead and she watches him through soft, blue eyes.
"Keep holding on, Jonas. Aerous went to radio a medical team. Don't let go."
I don't know if I can hold on. Jonas's mind screams at him; his heart pleads with him to keep the grasp he has on life. Don't let go.
He feels himself slipping and struggles to grab on; his hand slips and grabs nothing, but air. He screams out for help and the grip on his hand tightens; holding him suspended above the abyss. The hand is the only thing supporting him now.
Frustrated tears slide down his cheeks.
Please, don't let me fall…
TBC…