The Return of the Woolsey

Two weeks later, Mairghread and everyone around her had in all honesty given up trying to judge her age. It was, simply speaking, an exercise in futility. She was more or less fully grown for the time being. In the distant future, she could perhaps hope for some non-vertical growth, but for the moment, she was done.

Life had settled down far sooner than anyone had anticipated for her. She had shot up one night, stopping at five-and-one-half-feet and she had finally 'got some flesh on her bones' as Dr. Beckett put it. Her voice, while nowhere near the deep, rasping tone of previously encountered wraith females, was a throaty alto with a soft, cat-like purr behind it.

Truth to tell, she had grown into something of a beauty, if you could ignore her skin color and facial slits.

Which some of Atlantis' inhabitants could not. There had always been a few who had been uneasy around her. And there were those whose initial trepidation had faded in the glow of a six-year-old, but now had returned in the face of a fully-grown wraith. The fact that she had never hurt anyone, had fled and hidden and asked to be locked up anytime she thought herself a danger to others seemed to have little effect on their fear.

It would be far more difficult this time to convince Woolsey that she was not a serious threat. She knew this, musing it and turning the problem over in her mind as she helped the cooks to prepare lunch (she was in charge of the stew—she seemed to have 'the magic touch'. Whatever they were brought to cook with, she could turn into a not only edible, but tasty meal. The cooks were enjoying a much deserved and longed for break from insults and harassment).

The part of the population that feared her would bolster Woolsey's opinion that she was in fact dangerous, even if most of the people were too blinded to notice, and that fact that she was trusted almost everywhere and was more friendly with her guard than professional guarders and guard-ees are supposed to be would support his claim that she was a threat because she had free reign in the top-secret facility.

"Mary?"

A quiet voice in her ear made her jump, but she smiled when she saw it was Solomon, her friend who had taught her how to cook. He was not an official cook of Atlantis—he was, in fact, the head astrochemist, but the Sudanese man was a closet chef.

"What troubles you?" he asked as he tasted her latest creation—Alterian deer-thing and Athosian purple carrots, along with Satedan pink potatoes. "Needs salt."

"I know. I have to wait though, or the deer-thing-meat shrivels into jerky."

"Very good," he said, eyeing it and throwing in another handful of potatoes. "But you have not answered my question."

"I am worried for my parents," she told him. They had gone to visit some moon, but had missed their check in—she had heard from Chuck, who had let her know against Dr. Weir's orders.

"You know this is not uncommon," he reminded her, sensing something more. "Your heart is dark for some other reason."

She smiled and sighed heavily. How did he always know? "I am thinking about what will happen when Woolsey comes again. He is supposed to arrive any day now."

Solomon laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Do not worry. I am certain that it will all work out in the end."

She laughed humorlessly. "How can you be so sure?"

"' تَأَمَّلُوا الزَّنَابِقَ كَيْفَ تَنْمُو! فَهِيَ لاَ تَتْعَبُ وَلاَ تَغْزِلُ، وَلكِنِّي أَقُولُ لَكُمْ: حَتَّى سُلَيْمَانُ فِي قِمَّةِ مَجْدِهِ لَمْ يَكْتَسِ مَا يُعَادِلُ وَاحِدَةً مِنْهَا بَهَاءً؟'," he replied in his native tongue.

"Luke, 12:27," she responded automatically. "Where Jesus instructs his followers not to worry about where they will live or sleep or what they will wear or eat."

"Mm-hmm," Solomon tasted the stew again. "Still needs salt."

"I am not one of His followers, Solomon," Mairghread reminded him as she pulled a carton of the needed seasoning from the shelf.

"That's what you think," he told her cryptically. "Still, I am sure He will provide."

"I pray to the Spirits you are right, my friend. There," she had him taste the stew again. "Better?"

xxxxxxx

Ronon and Teyla and the rest of team Sheppard were, of course, home late that evening. No one ever got left behind, and as much 'bad luck' as SGA-1 got shoveled onto them 'someone up there' must surely like them, for though they came home bloodied, bruised and broken, they always made it home alive, always survived to fight again.

Teyla would spend the night in the infirmary, but Ronon, arm wrapped tightly and held in a sling, was allowed to return to his room—Beckett trusted Mairghread would let him know if anything seemed wrong.

Mairghread helped the huge man to settle comfortably on the sofa in the living room. She knew his exhaustion, though he hid it well. She could sense it, feel his pain and tiredness. But she knew equally his need to 'wind down' as John put it. He could not return to safety yet.

And so she let him be, leaving him in the dim light of summer dusk as it filtered through the large windows and she prepared a light meal for him.

It was a strange relationship, between Mairghread and Ronon. The wraith hunter, the man whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to kill as many of that hated race as possible, and the orphan of those he hated. It had been feared by some that as she grew, his affection and loyalty to her would shrink. But it was not so; if anything, their bond had grown deeper with each passing age. Father and daughter and friends, companions—they were all these. Father and daughter foremost, and joint-sharers of the grief known only by those whose entire family is gone. The only change that could be detected was that now, she was as protective of him as he of she.

Mairghread manually raised the lights slightly—the sun had set, leaving the room where Ronon sat in almost complete darkness.

"Dad?" she spoke softly as she sat down next to him—she could feel his headache, possibly from worry, possibly from oxygen-deprivation—and did not wish to aggravate it. "Some soup."

The Satedan took the proffered bowl in his left hand and drank the broth, meat and vegetables quickly. It reminded him of the soup his mother made for him as a child. Though he was not sick as often as his peers, he was not invincible. But his mother's soup never failed to make him feel better.

Seeing he was done, Mairghread stood and offered her father her hand. "Come on then, let's get you into bed. No fuss!" she warned him when he opened his mouth to protest. "Or I'll tell Carson."

Ronon grinned and grasped her arm firmly, letting her pull him up. Not that he couldn't have done it himself, mind you, but it had become habit, almost ritual to them since she had been tall enough to offer a little leverage.

She wrapped an arm around his waist, more for her own comfort than his—grown she may be, but it still terrified her, the thought of losing another father—as they made their way to Ronon's bedroom.

It was no longer so Spartan as was his custom before she came. Walls were now covered in the drawings of her childhood, flat surfaces with three-dimensional artwork and pictures of her and Teyla taken by one of the biologists whose hobby was photography. Mairghread had told him time and again that he no longer needed to keep them up now that she was grown, and he had agreed, but they stayed, memento-mori-s of her too-brief childhood.

In silence and with gentle hands, Mairghread helped her father into bed, arranging the pillows to support his head and shoulders and prevent him from rolling in his sleep.

"You can go to bed," he grumbled good naturedly. "I can take care of myself."

"Oh really?" retorted Mairghread with a smile. "If you can take care of yourself, why do you always come back hurt?"

"I do not!"

"Do!"

Reasonably assured that her father would stay in bed for the rest of the night, Mairghread returned to her own room, which itself held lingering vestiges of childhood.

She changed into a pair of light sweatpants, so favoured among the earthlings for night attire, and a tank top before wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and settling in bed, planning on reading a bit before she officially went to bed. She realized a few minutes later that she had read the same paragraph who-knows-how-many times, and still had no idea what it was she was reading.

Resigning herself to sleep, she turned off the light and drifted into a light slumber.

A series of sharp pains struck her upper back, and a fierce ache in her right shoulder brought Mairghread back to wakefulness with a start. Dark thoughts and fears hovered at the edge of her mind as the ghosts of the pains lingered. She leapt out of bed and ran into Ronon's room as quickly as her feet would take her (which was very quick indeed—she was, after all, a wraith).

She really had hoped that Dr. Beckett had slipped a light, slow-acting sedative into the injection of pain meds he had given Ronon. Of all the people on Atlantis, or in two galaxies, for that matter, Mairghread was fairly certain that only she and Carson knew about the nightmares. Off world, Ronon hardly ever slept, and when he did, it was a light, watchful sleep, never deep enough for dreams of any sort. At home, he slept in his own room alone, and he never made enough noise even in the grips of the worst night-terrors to penetrate the thick Atlantean walls. Mairghread only knew because she knew everyone's nightmares—she shared them. Among wraith families of old, the ones with the strongest 'psychic/telepathic/empathic' abilities bore the brunt of all nightmares (which usually meant the oldest took on the fears of the youngest). It was the same with her and her family on Atlantis.

Dr. Beckett knew because he just did—he was a doctor, he never slept when a patient was on his watch. He could see the subtle signs in the Satedan when he had a nightmare, though he told no one.

But apparently, he had forgotten, or not thought that the situation would set them off again, because Mairghread found Ronon moaning, tossing and mumbling, trapped by horrors past and regurgitated into more frightening forms.

She sat on the edge of the bed and passed her hand lightly over Ronon's face, sending him in a deeper sleep, beyond the reach of the nightmares.

But the phantom pain across her back and shoulder did not cease, which was decidedly odd. Usually, the pain was linked to the nightmare, and so disappeared with it. But it lingered.

Mairghread rolled Ronon over as gently and carefully as she could without waking him and without hurting his arm more. It was not a terribly difficult task—she could easily keep him asleep, and she was every bit as strong, if not stronger, than her adoptive father, for all she was a foot shorter and half his size. Eventually, she successfully got him to lie on his stomach, carefully arranging pillows to avoid unnecessary pressure on his shoulder or arm, and cautiously lifted his loose linen shirt to reveal his heavily bandaged shoulder and back.

She brought her hands to hover half-a-hair's breadth over Ronon's shoulders, and closed her eyes, letting her mind's-eye see for her and allowing her other senses to fill in more accurately what she needed to know.

Her ears hummed with the sound of rushing blood and ligaments and muscle straining and swelling, nerves buzzing with messages that were lost to a sleeping mind that had left its voice mail in charge, only the server was down, so the messages left were never really there.

She could smell him—leather and sweat, linen and the sandalwood soap he used, earth and open air.

Beneath her hands, old scar tissue rose in protest against the day's abuse, while muscle and tendon and joint bewailed their rough treatment.

In her minds-eye, a image painted by what her hands sensed, her own back felt and her 'sixth sense' saw reared before her and wrenched her heart as a metal door had wrenched Ronon's shoulder earlier.

Deep wounds, cruelly inflicted traced along his spine and shoulder; she shuddered because she knew how they came there.

She could heal them so easily—heal all his wounds so quickly, so painlessly. No more aching muscles, no more scar tissue that tore so easily, no more nightmares.

But she could not, not without him knowing, without asking…except…

What he could not see, chose to ignore, she could heal. Not completely, not now, but ease, yes she could do that. She needed to do this.

Mairghread took a steadying breath and slowly gathered her energies into her hands. She should have eaten a huge meal before trying this, not the light repast she had consumed hours before. Already her feet and legs grew cold as she stole from them whatever she could, shunting the energies to her fingertips, were they buzzed, itched and burned. And when she had scraped together all she could, she let the healing energies flow out of her hands, hovering nanometers above the tawny flesh, deep into the old wounds, healing, yes, healing the scars beneath the surface that no one saw, but caused him so much pain. Healing energies into his shoulder, mending ligaments enough so they would allow the rest of his shoulder to heal properly.

And when she was done, she was exhausted to the point of collapse. She should have been storing up energy for days before attempting something like this! But, she reminded herself, how was she to know this would happen? Certainly, there had been the sinking pit that formed in her stomach when they had gone, but that happened often, and she could never tell who the doom she sensed was for, whether some scientist in a lab or a team off world.

She should go back to her own room, she told herself as she ran her fingers through her hair. She should roll Ronon onto his back again and return to her room.

She did just manage to get Ronon onto his back again and arranged with pillows, but getting back to her room? Not happening, she realized when her legs buckled beneath two steps out. Nope. Not tonight. She pulled a spare quilt off the foot of the bed, just in her reach, and curled up catlike beside the bed on the floor. With luck, she would wake up restored enough to leave before Ronon awoke.

In the Control Room, a console beeped, alerting Atlantis to the arrival of the Daedalus on the outskirts of the sensors—Woolsey had returned.

TBC

Next: Trials and Tribualtions