THE NEXT EVENT - by Kolyaaa!
CHAPTER FIVE: THE THRASHING
A/N: To you who write me feedback - you are good citizens and I applaud your commitment to me. Reading my story is a good and noble cause, and leaving me comments is even better. To flah7 - I have heard your cries and your beloved Beckett will poke his head into this chapter. He shall appear more prominently later, I promise you.
A/N: To you who do not write feedback to me - you know who you are. I have caught a chicken that was scratching in the yard and have put it in a box. If I do not get more feedback I will cut the head off the chicken - and I will cook it (maybe with a little rosemary) and I will eat it. Peggy's life is in your hands.
A/N: My OFC is NOT a Mary Sue. Sure, she's beautiful beyond words, and perfect in every way, but her name is Nonor. She belongs solely to me, but if the folks who write for the television program want to borrow her, they will have to wrestle me for her. And just a warning - I fight dirty.
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A warm sun beat down on the grass playing fields. A soft breeze kept the heat at bay and dried sweat as it beaded on skin and soaked the clothing of some participants.
In one small section, with a single small rope delineating the boundaries of the playing field, two women warriors stood facing one another ready to do battle.
One was a tall robust woman, her golden hair pulled back into a tight pony tail exposing sharp features, full lips and large, startling, diamond-blue eyes which seemed to sparkle in the light. She moved heavily. Her footfalls were solid, bending grass and leaving imprints. Taut muscles bunched and knotted over unmarred skin, protecting a heavy skeleton. Thick boned wrists twirled her fighting sticks with blinding speed. A grim thin-lined smile hardened her features, highlighting her fierce concentration.
The second woman was much smaller, finer-boned and elegantly toned. She moved with the sophistication and grace of a hunting cat. Her bare feet seemed to glide over the grass without bending a blade. Her dark eyes warily watched her much larger opponent. A small smile curled the edges of her delicate mouth, giving an added softness and openness to a friendly face. Her hair too was pulled back into a ponytail, though loose strands seemed to pull free at a whim and dance unrestrained in the breeze as if matching the spirit within the body. Her beauty was unmatched.
Her skill was yet to be tested.
Teyla sidestepped confidently, twirling her stick around her hand with such speed it made the air sing. She held her other stick before her as she circled Nonor.
The Athosian kept her eyes on the taller woman's chest, knowing that a head could feint left or right or could mime an attack and spring a trap. The head was flexible and deceiving. It could move without the rest of the body and force a lesser opponent into moving foolishly.
Teyla continued to circle, careful never to cross her bare feet on the short grass. She felt constricted in the tight confines of her SGA issued pants but could do nothing to change it. She had sparred in such constricting clothing before and would do so again.
She would adapt. She had to.
She continued to twirl her back right hand, her power stick, while her left remained out front, on guard, waiting like a sentry.
Teyla looked forward to testing her skill against Ronon's sister. Nonor appeared a worthy opponent.
The Athosian stared straight ahead, making her challenger match her moves, circling to the right, which somehow felt unnatural on this planet. She focused solely on the towering Nonor.
The sounds of the crowd faded as Teyla became more focused. The feel of the hundreds of grass blades tickling her ankles disappeared.
The swirl of the stick in her power hand whispered in the air, comforting the twitter of butterflies that patted within her stomach. Teyla watched Nonor's chest. The torso would not move unless the body was committed to movement. The torso did not deceive in stick fighting, not like the head or eyes of an opponent.
Nonor attacked.
Her attack was fast and furious. The warrior leaped in, brandishing her sticks before her like twin blades rotating in opposite directions. Teyla's guard stick was caught and whipped to the side, clearing the way for the flashing of Nonor's left stick. It came crashing down toward the Athosian's skull.
Teyla snapped her head to the side escaping the blow as she leaped to the right and slightly back. She was careful to avoid backing in a straight line thus allowing her attacker to continue her assault at the same angle.
The ferocity and brutal power of the attack surprised Teyla.
This was to be a friendly bout. One trained with friends, practiced with comrades, sparred with fellow athletes.
One fought only with the true enemy.
Teyla leaped right, feeling the motion unnatural, confusing her and causing her to think.
Thinking paused instinct.
Nonor stick lashed out and connected solidly with the side of Teyla's neck. Shocking pain lanced up and down Teyla's neck blinding her momentarily and numbing her side.
This was no sparring match. Nonor fought to inflict pain.
The Athosian immediately snapped an arm up, rolling Nonor's stick away and attacked the extended forearm with her second stick, her power arm.
Nonor pivoted easily, her long hairless arms outstretched, twirling and swinging her sticks with the repetitive speed of hummingbird wings.
Teyla dove to the ground and shoulder-rolled to the left, seamlessly gaining her feet. Pain was blocked and smothered. There would be time to lick one's wounds and tend deep bruises when the fighting was done. One could only heal if they survived. To survive, one must stay in the fight and be victorious.
This was not a training session amongst friends or acquaintances.
Teyla settled down in her stance, lowering her center of gravity. She held her guard stick forward and continued to twirl her power stick just low behind her hip. The movement was comforting, soothing. Her heartbeat slowed and breathing evened out as her stick spun effortlessly behind her.
The Athosian circled the larger woman, knowing that in a match between evenly skilled combatants, strength, weight and reach would favor the bigger person. Speed and agility did not often garner enough of an advantage for the smaller quicker fighter.
Nonor was truly of mythical proportions. She rivaled her brother in height, weight and reach.
Teyla circled, keeping herself from Nonor's reach, which unfortunately cut herself from her own form of attacking.
The Athosian stared at Nonor's chest and realized her opponent did not gasp or fight for breath. She was not winded.
Teyla ignored the free strings of hair that clung to her forehead. She did not feel the sweat that beaded her skin and glistened in the sunlight.
Teyla swung her sticks, taking comfort in the hiss as they cut cleanly through the air with no hint of a warble. She attacked. Teyla came in low, feinting with her guard stick as her power stick whistled through the air on a horizontal plain aiming for Nonor's knee.
Teyla would apologize to Ronon later. Doctor Beckett could fix just about anything, Nonor would not be permanently injured. She needed to end this now before someone got truly hurt.
Nonor fought too much like her brother, and where Teyla trusted Ronon, she did not know or trust his sister yet.
Teyla's stick sliced in cleanly, blindly cutting through the air with a blurring speed.
A stick shot down and connected with Teyla's power swing, easily deflecting it outward in a wider arc forcing it outside its circumference of maximum damage. Teyla's strike finishing strike was deflected.
With the stick redirected wide, Teyla's right side was exposed. She tried to twist away to avoid the devastating blow that was sure to fall.
Had she been sparring with a friend, training with one of the Atlantians, she would welcome the slight bruise as a learning aid - a reminder that she had become careless, overconfident in her own prowess.
Her carelessness here earned her a punishing blow that snapped her lower right ribs and tore intercostals muscles from their origins and insertions. Veins broke, tiny arterioles tore and nerves screamed.
Teyla pirouetted around on the ball of her foot, bringing her left arm up to protect herself as her right side flared in crushing pain. Nonor was there, knocking her left stick to the side and closed in flailing her sticks like a club hunter.
Teyla felt the first set of blows crash across her right shoulder blade. The second strike swung up from the ground like a vicious uppercut hoping to stand up a failing fighter for one more solid blow.
The stick cracked under Teyla's mandible snapping her head back arching it brutally revealing the soft underside of her neck, exposing the stretched tracheal rings hidden under ineffectual thin muscle and skin. Her collarbones became prominent and unprotected as she was flung backward, the back of her head nearly touching between her shoulder blades.
Teyla saw the blur of a stick heading for her. She twirled on her faltering balance. Her inner ear sent conflicting data to her brain as her eyes only caught rotary movements. She twisted away on a collapsing leg as the whirling stick came crashing down on her exposed extended collarbone.
She heard a plaintive cry somewhere amongst the hazy grey world. She lost feeling in one of her hands but couldn't fathom which one.
Teyla hit the ground and rolled. Instinct and a life of fighting kept her from giving up. She still held her sticks. She still breathed, could still move. She would continue to fight. This was a fight with the enemy.
Teyla rolled again, somersaulting at an angle, working on instinct, listening only to the feeling of her feet on the grass, her brain ignored the sensory input of the inner ear. Teyla felt the whistling air of a near miss. She pivoted, rotating from her hip to her feet and attacked before her opponent could adjust to the new angle.
The Athosian attacked swiftly, brutally. Teyla stormed in on her larger, stronger opponent swinging her sticks in controlled powerful arcs. The soft curve of a gentle smile was replaced by the snarl of a predator not used to being cornered.
The clickity-click of sticks resounded through the area. Teyla pressed onward. She swung her sticks, lashed out in controlled fury with her damaged lower jaw tucked in tight to her sternum. She struck blow after blow, connected repeatedly with sticks that deflected her attacks, and still she pressed forward, refusing to give ground. She took no pleasure when her sticks hit solid tissue. Through muscle memory, her body moved with the assurance and grace only witnessed with a lifetime of training and fighting.
Teyla would not lose this fight because she would not quit. She would not lose this fight because she was tired or beaten. The Wraith did not care for such things and thus Teyla and her people trained accordingly.
The Athosian continued swinging and attacking, using her arms and calling strength from damaged muscles and protesting joints. She defied nay-sayers that believed in only the physical strength of the body, that dismissed the spirit that raged deep within the body.
Teyla continued to attack in a controlled efficient frenzy.
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Nonor deflected most strikes. She took a blow to her ribs that caused her to blink. She took a solid hit to her elbow that numbed her fingers.
Nonor was forced to back away from the wild Athosian that pressed her swirling sticks and revealed a raging spirit.
Nonor had known many opponents but none fought with the deadly intensity or endurance of Ronon's pretty little friend.
Nonor felt herself tire, felt her shoulders ache, her hands were sweaty, the grips on her sticks were waning. She felt short of breath. Her heart raced. The fight was becoming too much of an effort.
Still this little woman continued to attack her. She was like a stinging insect on a hot humid day. Nonor continued to swat at her, but the nimble little creature continued onward, attacking, attacking, attacking.
Nonor Dex began to worry. She could not lose before her people, not in front of her brother, though her brother was in the tent with the little funny men. He would find out and he would be disappointed - she could not disappoint her brother.
Nonor could not lose to this diminutive, primitive woman. She was sure she had already broken some of tiny woman's fragile bones.
When would this nuisance quit?
Nonor continued to back in a straight line. She was forced to block blow after hand-numbing blow. Nonor heard the crowd cheer for the little woman in the funny dress.
The spectators cheered for the small alien with tiny laughable sticks that should not carry the bite and sting that they did. Nonor felt her face grow red with the heat of exertion and embarrassment. This was no nuisance - she was actually being outmatched! She had never been outmatched. That could not happen! Not here, not now, not with her brother back with her and so near. It was time to end this now.
Nonor felt herself backed into a corner. If she was forced from the ring, then she lost.
A corner flag flapped at the nape of her neck. The little Athosian stung at her from the front, her flying sticks leaving angry welts, one or two strong enough to break Nonor's fine skin.
Nonor made a desperate lunge for the flag.
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Teyla attacked and attacked. She was oblivious to her pain. She fought the enemy. With directed energy and no wasted movement, Teyla attacked the Satedan. She would win this contest and then go the jumper and wait for the others. She would tend her wounds in private and apologize to Ronon later.
Teyla swung her power stick up from behind her hip and found it suddenly foiled in red and white cloth.
The cloth billowed in one section while another knotted and blunted her power stick. Her arm faltered. She struck out with her left, seamlessly switching from right-handed to left-handed as her father had taught her a lifetime ago. He had made her practice everyday, three times a day. Left and right should make no difference in a master fighter.
The cloth came down tight, trapping her other stick and then covering her head.
Teyla dropped her head and charged forward into her opponent, uncaring of the reason behind the deceitfulness, but recognizing it for what it was…treachery.
Teyla never saw the sticks that pummeled her head and shoulders. She was forced to her knees, folding to her hands as blow after blow landed on her body from outside the red suffocating cloth.
Through the frantic beat of her heart and heaving rasping of her breath, she thought she heard the familiar voice of Doctor McKay shouting frantically and furiously for someone to stop, and calling for Colonel Sheppard. She heard his heavy steps running towards her, coming to save her, and she focused on them, needing to know he was coming...
A fierce blow snapped the back of Teyla's cloth shrouded neck. Pain exploded in her skull.
Then all went dark.
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Teyla became aware of the pain first. Lancing fiery pain seared the back of her head and felt as if the bones of her neck were shoved too far into her skull. Her shoulders burned.
She moaned and rolled her head but stopped abruptly as something grated within her neck. It felt strangely numb. She tried opening her eyes. They felt swollen and tacky. She attempted to work moisture back into her parched mouth. Teyla attempted to manipulate her lower jaw but unmatched agony exploded forth.
She cried out, sparking a vicious cyclone of paralyzing pain that forced her to tense muscles that in turn shifted bones. She cried out again, fisting a hand tightly, not recognizing the returning grip of Dr. McKay.
"Oh God, Oh God."
Teyla heard the words repeated over and over and wondered if Rodney knew what was wrong with her.
She tried to open her eyes again. The upper and lower lid of one unpeeled and she stared through a blurry film at the inside of a red and white striped tent.
The world pitched and rolled.
Her stomach rebelled. Vomit erupted and spewed forth, forcing her to open her mouth wide. Her lower jaw shifted, her back arched and something shifted unnaturally in her neck.
Teyla screamed, choking on her partially digested stomach contents.
"Oh God, oh God -Teyla, don't do this; hold on, Teyla. The Colonel's getting Beckett -we couldn't risk moving you far…your neck…" McKay's voice sounded far off. He sounded scared.
Teyla had trust in Dr. McKay, more trust than the man had in himself when it came to things not connected with his laptop.
She felt a set of hands roll her onto her sore ribs.
She whimpered. It was a plaintive sound that had her wishing she would succumb to unconsciousness before making such a pitiful noise again.
"Oh God, a little help in here! Sheppard? Where the hell is Sheppard with Beckett? They've been gone long enough. How long does it take? Damn them!"
Teyla heard McKay's panicked shouts and wished he would holler a little more quietly. She felt hands rubbing her back and hoped they would soon stop touching her. Her back hurt. Her skinned burned and tingled as if hypersensitive.
She moaned.
Vomit strung heavily from her bloodied lips.
"Hold on, Teyla, Sheppard's getting Beckett. They'll be here any moment."
Teyla heard footsteps and then she heard a voice. She had only ever wished to hear two voices in all her lifetime. She had always wanted to hear her mother sing to her one last time as her mother put her to bed. The second voice Teyla longed to hear had been her father's. She had always wished to hear his strong confident voice of reason when dealing with difficult trade agreements or trying problems with her own people. She always wished to hear her parents again and feel the safety and comfort that had been snatched from her so long ago.
Never had she ever thought that she would wish to hear a third voice. However, when the thick accent, "Dear God, what happened?" whispered steadily from a far off distance she felt her fear spark and rise in parallel with her relief.
When a gentle hand gingerly touched the side of her head and lay there for just a moment she found great comfort and felt her misery abate just a little. She strained to hear the voice again, to feel the warmth and reassuring comfort it so often granted without much effort. The voice quietly whispered, "Ahh, lass, it'll be okay. I prom-," the soothing voice faltered, paused. The rhythm interrupted and then picked back up, soft and with a sad cadence, "Ah, Teyla…I'll not let the pain stay."
Teyla's fear spiked. A rebellious tear rolled down her marred face.
She knew it wasn't going to be okay. She was not going to be all right.
Dr. Beckett's voice had hitched. He couldn't promise her she'd be fine.
Perhaps she would get to hear her mother and father a little earlier than she had planned.
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A/N: I meant it about the chicken!
