FAULT LINES
From the personal journal of A'Gaeris
Today, the true work has begun. I woke the outsider early this morning, far earlier than he has been accustomed to and well before Gitsahth's metallic gold dawn. I had need to, if we were to remain on schedule. He balked initially but fell into stride obediently at my heel with just a sharp glare. My but he is coming along into a well-trained little pet already.
Rodney McKay followed me quite quietly down to the one room in the entire keep that he has not been allowed to traipse; the Book Room. There, I handed him the copybook with which I had measured his potential just yesterday. I inquired casually if he recalled the contents of the copybook, to which I received a moderately snide response to the affirmative. He contained his sarcasm quickly though under just a quick glance. Rodney McKay is tired and irritated, but he is no fool to test my patience for too long. He apologized quickly and again quite fervently asserted his recollection of the contents of the copybook when Suahrnir joined us. There is certainly something to be said about the presence of a Maintainer of his stature to curtail poor manners in any outsider, no matter how recalcitrant.
I unlocked the door to the Book Room, careful to ensure that my protege could see the complexity to a lock designed by perhaps one of the greatest of all the Grand Masters of the Maintainers, as well as where I keep the key tucked on me. I wanted him to know that this is no ordinary lock which could be picked by a few wire bits of metal nor chips of nara. The Book Room is without doubt the most secure room within the stone keep of Gitsahth, carved into the very rock of the island its self, assuring that the Book Room has walls spanning several spans thick in each direction. The door to the Book Room measures nearly a foot in thickness of pure nara, slipping into carved niches in the wall when it opens, as opposed to swinging upon hinges. I wanted Rodney McKay to see all of this in turn and to know that the only means into the Book Room and thusly to other Ages is through me and me alone.
I presented Rodney McKay with the book of Eder Tomahn. It is an Age of my own hand, a temperate place of gentle seasons, lush throughout Eder Tomahn's short year cycles. It is the text of Eder Tomahn that I copied so incorrectly to test my pet's mettle. Rodney McKay instantly recognized it as so.
Under Suahrnir's watchful eyes, I instructed Rodney McKay to link through to Eder Tomahn and joined him. My timing, as always, was impeccable. We linked into Eder Tomahn shortly before dawn, just in time to watch the sun crest over the horizon and reveal the Age about him, the functioning Age which he had previously tutted as nothing more than a joke.
His surprise was nothing short of a delight. I may not be a Guildsman anymore, but I am still D'ni, still a Writer, and, as such, still exceptionally proud of the Art. I savored the shock on his face as he marveled at the beauty which I have so carefully crafted into Eder Tomahn, the same physical attributes which he had scoffed at just yesterday in the copybook. Rodney McKay stammered and pondered at the seeming impossibility of Eder Tomahn, a humorous sight to say the least. He insisted it a jest, an illusion and nothing more, until I produced the copybook for him to study. He meandered, for a time, studying this world that conforms so precisely to world he glimpsed in the copybook after his corrections and leafing through his copybook. The green deciduous trees, the clears waters of the streams, the purple mountains in the distance with their snow capped peaks, every small detail described in the copybook.
While he stumbled about, I dined upon a simple breakfast upon the slight bluff by the secure chest which stores the linking books out of this Age, including the one back to Gitshahth. From such a vantage point, Rodney McKay could not flee nor plot against me, nor could he hope to escape to another Age or back to Gitshahth with me perched so cautiously over the cache of linking books. It was an unnecessary measure in the end, as Rodney McKay remained enthralled by Eder Tomahn and nothing else.
About Eder Tomahn's midday, Rodney McKay returned to my side, demanding to know how this worked. It sickens me, even now, to admit these sins, this abomination against D'ni in introducing an outsider to this, the sacred Art of Writing, but I do only precisely that which I have been driven to exact. No more, no less. No matter how it pained me, I told him of the Art.
He laughed and mocked me with his shrewd tongue, but he could not deny these facts when we returned to Gitshahth and I demonstrated. I took a blank book from my private stock. I allowed him to examine the book, the binding, the pages, and the vacant linking panel. Then, after his scrutiny, I took the book and scrolled a few lines, but the most minimal of structure for an Age. I allowed him, once more, to survey the book. Then, I instructed him to link through, to find an appropriately corresponding Age on the other side, following him with a linking book back to Gitshahth. No more could he deny the Art.
It is curious, however. After witnessing this with his own eyes, Rodney McKay said something quite unusual. He called the book a "star gate" and asked to know more, perhaps never so thrilled before in all his time in my custody. I indulged his curiosity, explaining only the base mechanics behind the writing of an Age. I postulated to him, then, that it would be possible, with the precise writing, of course, to create a link to any world, including his own.
The seed planted, I allowed it to germinate on its own for a few days until Rodney McKay came to me.
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Ronon rises easily and silently in the predawn darkness, slipping out from between the sheets and into clean clothes before stepping into the dimmed corridors - and all without even stirring his wife in the slightest. He prefers these long, somnolent hours spanning from the darkest depths of midnight into the watery glow of dawn. There is a preternatural silence and stillness to these witching hours, even in a place teeming such as Atlantis that teems with life and hardly ever seems to draw breath.
The Satedan pauses to give a last look at Jennifer before shutting the door behind him. No single residence in Atlantis is perfectly dark between simple lighting dimmed for night and the slivered windows through which pale shards of diffuse moonlight shimmer off the Lantean Sea. The muted blue tones kiss her face softly upon her high, rounded cheeks and pert nose. She is lovely, even now, exhausted as she is, even tainted by the sorrowed memory of her once lover. He shall have to speak with her again on the matter, but certainly not now and not until he has had time to think clearly on the matter.
The moon is still slung high upon the darkened Lantean sky when Ronon steps soundlessly onto the metal catwalk. On crystalline still mornings such as this, after McKay vanished and was finally declared KIA by the American military, Ronon spent several hours running along these walks and paths in the many sublevels to the vast city of Atlantis to clear his mind of the doubt that lingered still in regards to the loss of McKay, with varying degrees of success depending on the morning in question. Sometimes, he ran with Sheppard, other times, he ran alone as he does now, accompanied only by the sound of his own feet echoing down the long, lonely stretches of corridors and walkways of Atlantis.
Ronon sighs as he jogs, hanging his head. When McKay disappeared, it had seemed so very simple. He, Sheppard, and Teyla scoured the Pegasus Galaxy for him, searching high and low for any sign of their lost friend or a civilization capable of creating such wonders as the book that stole Rodney away. It had been both insufferably depressing and infuriating at the same time. After everything they had encountered in the galaxy, after the Genii, the Asurans, and the Wraith, all the other assorted horrors of an entirely unkind and unmerciful universe, for McKay to be taken by something as tiny, insignificant and humble as that book? It was almost too ironically cruel to bear.
It had been Jennifer who had been the one to bear the worst of it all. She had loved Rodney, dearly so. Her grief had been a heavy, cumbersome thing, swallowed her with voracious appetite. Yet, the doctor bore her sadness with a surprising and entirely impressive grace, treating her patient with the same tender care as always, yet with a slight reservation and distance to her hollowed eyes. It had been her place to ferry Rodney's scant personal effects back to his family along with the solemn news of his change in status from missing in action to killed in action. She did it, and did it all from behind the perfect, porcelain veneer of quiet composure, with an honor and dignity that seemed impossible granted her sorrow.
Only Ronon had not been fooled so simply by her mask. Years on the run from the Wraith had taught him to be a suspicious and observant person, to a fault at times. He had seen through her eyes down to the depths of her suffering, to the very pit of her wallowing underneath it all. The Satedan had melted and taken pity upon her, silently allowing her paltry illusion of calm acceptance to persist out of a sympathy he had previously thought long dead within him.
And, somehow, she had known. A woman's intuition, perhaps. Yet neither said a word, slipping into an uneasy complicity with one another. He said nothing of the dark rings forming beneath her eyes, while she said nothing of the excuses he began to find to check on her in the infirmary, some of which were beginning to seem McKay-quality. It went on for months that way until she finally broke down one night in Ronon's arms.
That, however, had been in what now felt a distant life now that McKay has returned.
Ronon sighs once more as he turns out onto a catwalk leading westward to one of the less occupied piers. His is not an entirely unheard of situation. He has actually witnessed this once before, on Sateda, as unlikely as it may seem. A fellow specialist and member of his squad, Erras, had been declared killed in action by mistake after being critically wounded and severely disfigured by an incendiary. His wife, Mara, after grieving his death just as Jennifer grieved for Rodney, moved on, just as Jennifer had. Mara had remarried while Erras slumbered, unaware that her first husband lived on. When Erras awoke, there had been the understandable confusion and discomfort, but Ronon had little care to follow the gossip surrounding the situation.
Ronon tries to shake himself of the sensation, but he cannot so easily shuffle loose the odd sensation that he cannot describe - something bordering between jealousy and friendship. It swallows him whole. Thusly distracted, his feet move of their own accord, pacing circles and paths that Ronon runs every day. Down through the bowels of Atlantis and away from prying eyes where he can breathe in peace. Up and across the gantries that span over workshops, cargo holds, and, eventually over the jumper bays before doubling back through Operations and towards the infirmary. He has run this way so very often, using the path as a quick excuse to visit his bride that Ronon has entirely forgotten this until he stands just beyond the door.
He has only seen Rodney McKay - or Rahd'ni as everyone insists - but briefly and not nearly for enough time to accurately gauge what is left of the man he once called friend. What he has seen has been... questionable. This Rahd'ni is quiet and flighty, yet contemplative and deep. He is a creature of revealing and concealing, yet a man of great fear and responsibility. Rahd'ni seems harrowed somehow, bowed by an unspoken, unseen weight. Ronon cannot put his finger on it.
Ronon draws a breath and nods to himself; one small glance will do no harm. He slips into the infirmary in silence, pausing only to give a quick nod to one of the nurses before climbing up to the observation deck above isolation. No one stops him; the entire staff has grown quite accustomed to Ronon's visits.
There, Ronon peers down, into the dim room and spies a figure below, huddled on the single bed. Rahd'ni. He seems so much smaller now, thinner and drawn, worse so from above. He seems vulnerable asleep, so very haggard. Ronon frowns as the physicist tenses even in his sleep. Rahd'ni's scarred hands twitch and jerk with unconscious movements. He is dreaming, and it is not a pleasant dream judging from the motions.
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The orange glow of the great lake about D'ni has almost dimmed to a twilight glow when a soft chime stirs the humble residence, jarring Rahd'ni from the experiment he has been laboring so intently over for several hours. He blinks, having not realized how late the hour and how dark his study has grown. He strikes a small fire marble and sets the cheerfully glowing orb upon the delicate, wired armature inside the lantern, focusing the light upon his creation. It is almost ready, whatever it is that he has crafted so diligently and so tirelessly these last few months. Rahd'ni nods appreciatively over his creation once more before rising to answer the incessant chiming at the door.
When Rahd'ni finally answers his door, it is to a man who appears perhaps five or ten years his younger, clad in a long, elegant cloak of the richly saffron color of the Messengers standing in the corridor of the Guild House. His youth is an illusion, Rahd'ni knows. The D'ni are a race marked by their longevity and the graceful nature to their aging. He may appear to be far younger than Rahd'ni, but the guildsman before him is at least in his Age of Reason - twenty five years or older, likely far older judging from the insignias upon his cloak demarking him as a Guild Captain of the Guild of Messengers, a man of significant rank.
The guildsman gives a slight bow of his head and inquires in a swift clip, "SirRahd'ni?"
Rahd'ni winces slightly at the audible discomfort to the title affixed him. His place in D'ni society is an awkward and precarious one at best. The Lords and the Council have graciously allowed him access to the various facilities of the different Guilds for his research as well as a private residence in the Guild House. Despite his undeniable genius, the Council is loathe to set a precedent in appointing a bookworlder to the title of Master, let alone one that is not classically trained by D'ni standards. Honorifics are important social protocol among the D'ni, and the term "sir" for Rahd'ni is a compromise of such.
"Yes."
The guildsman smiles knowingly and hands a note to him. "From the Lady Ti'ana."
Rahd'ni furrows his brow and surveys the note penned in her airy script.
I am assuming that you do not recall the date nor occasion.
Rahd'ni instantly grimaces at the opening statement. Tonight is the night that he is supposed to accompany both Master Aitrus and Lady Ti'ana to the Guild of Book Makers to hear their son, Gehn, read in the closing ceremony of the guild's Open Day. While both Master Aitrus and Lady Ti'ana are quite proud of their son, Lady Ti'ana is especially so, affectionate and protective of Gehn in a way that most D'ni would consider unbecoming. Rahd'ni understands; Gehn is a sickly yet cunning child that reminds him of himself somehow - a child in dire need of such love and attention. Lady Ti'ana had invited Rahd'ni immediately upon hearing that her son would read at the event, yet even she jested at the time that Rahd'ni would likely not remember.
You are so like the D'ni, so devoted to your work and your studies. It is no wonder then that no woman can hold your heart. However, I had the foresight to send a Messenger before leaving to remind you. If you are reading this, and hurry, you may make it before your absence is noticed.
Rahd'ni nods at the Messenger. "Thank-you."
Before he can finish dismissing the guildsman, a faint hum meets his ear, gumming the words in his mouth. The messenger pricks his ear to the sound; all of D'ni seems to hold its breath as the hums sings through the city. Rahd'ni has heard his before, this same sound that stills the blood in his heart and steals the breath from his lungs. The more sheltered members of D'ni citizenry may not recognize the offending noise, but Rahd'ni does, even if it is vaguely so. He once traveled the great length of the Path to the surface with Ti'ana, Aitrus and their son. There, he experienced this same, perfect and crystalline sound, like a tuning fork struck in the deep. It is the sound of stone vibrating against itself, an earthquake in the depths of the rock slowly swelling as it impossibly and inexorably approaches.
"SHIT!"
The profanity that bursts forth from Rahd'ni's mouth as the quake dawns upon the great cavern with a tremendous crack and thundering commotion is not in D'ni, but he has not the time to acknowledge this as such. Instead, he moves instinctively, a distant part of his mind already aware of what to do. His fingers close about the golden yellow cloak of the messenger and close just in time to haul the startled guildsman into the doorframe. Rahd'ni huddles over the messenger, throwing his arms protectively over the stranger and pressing him into the nara collar of the sturdy door as the guild house trembles and rumbles about them. He is not certain why he knows to do this, but it is effective in protecting both of them from the stray decor of the Guild House that tumbles from the walls in the quake.
The messenger struggles from the sudden, claustrophobic hold, but Rahd'ni clutches him tighter and squeezes him against the doorframe with a strength and protective ferocity that almost frightens him. "NO! IT'S NOT SAFE YET! JUST WAIT! WAIT!"
The messenger stills in his arms as the world rumbles and rattles about them. Rahd'ni listens, trying not to focus on the clatters and thuds that he hears even above the thundering of the earthquake as the cavern veritably sings in perfect tenor about them. The wall beside them gives with a tremendous slam, crashing into the hall of the Guild House. A stray chunk of nara catches Rahd'ni by the arm, clipping him with a force that sends lightning sparks flashing through the bone and right up to his eyes. He grunts but just clamps his eyes shut, waiting for it to be over.
"It'll be over soon... not much longer... soon, soon... just stay here and you'll be alright," Rahd'ni whispers to himself over and over again in a cobbled, broken mix of that other language and D'ni, barely intelligible in either language, he knows.
The quake subsides just as suddenly as it struck, and the world goes uncomfortably silent. Rahd'ni swallows hard and breathes, just breathes, for a long moment before slowly, awkwardly uncurling from atop the messenger. Something lurches in the pit of Rahd'ni's stomach, making his blood run cold and his mouth go acutely dry and cottony. Something is horribly wrong, tolling as a death knoll in the back of his mind even before the great bell atop the Guild House sounds.
"The rock was stable," the messenger croaks incredulously, coughing a bit on the dust kicked up from the quake.
Rahd'ni knows somehow, impossibly. "The rock wasstable."
It is true. Centuries upon centuries have proven that the stone in which D'ni nestles is stable rock. The D'ni are a patient and cautious people burrowing their labyrinthine networks of tunnels, paths and nodes in the deep. No excavation, no matter how slight occurs without thorough sounding and serious preventative measures taken to avoid structural failure, and the great cavern that holds the city is no exception. Hundreds of soundings have shown the rock to be stable... meaning something has changed, something has beenchanged. Something has been changing these last few months in D'ni, and it smacks at him.
It tugs at the back of Rahd'ni mind, sending him racing from the doorframe and to the balcony of his residence as the messenger stumbles back into the hall and scrambles away. Only Guild Masters are granted such lavish accommodations to have their own residences aside from the barracks, let alone one large enough to afford a balcony with a view of anything worthwhile. Rahd'ni, however, is fortunate enough to have been given such a luxury. He rushes to it to survey the city.
Outside, chaos is unfolding in the city beneath him. It begins with a single, howling, lamenting wail from one of the lower districts, rising up and gaining in voices. Several houses and buildings are toppled, the worst of the damage in the lower districts, it seems from his vantage point. Dozens of lights still burn brightly out on the lake from boats and the many islands, but Rahd'ni has no way to know what the damage is upon those spires jutting from the now placid waters of the lake.
However, any destruction on those tiny islands pales in compare to what rivets his attention and focus. A giant crag has opened on the far side of the cavern, slitting the once secure stone and gaping like a great, wide maw. It is a fissure, a fault line split into the stone and cleaved into the structure of the cavern, spewing forth a ghastly belch of sickly, choking black smoke.
"The rock was sound," Rahd'ni mutters once more to himself, unable to believe the sight of the crack. "The rock was sound..."
The smoke that pours from the crack lurches forward, reaching out in ghastly, black tendrils and spreading out, over the lake. Where the inky black touches the waters, even if only for a tiny, momentary kiss, the light giving algae smothers and dims, dying away to nothing. Should it reach the city... then... Rahd'ni shudders at the vaguely formed terror even as the great bell of the Guild House sounds loudly from above.
The bell tolls in D'ni for two things alone. The death of one of the Five Lords, or a direct threat to D'ni its self. Rahd'ni heart breaks with each solemn knoll of the great bell. D'ni is in grave danger, and somehow, Rahd'ni knows, in the far corners of his mind, he knows that this is more than a simple quake or natural disaster. He knows, damnit! Rahd'ni bolts from his quarters even as a second tremor - more violent than the first - rocks the city and the Guild House, sending him tumbling to the ground allowing with falling masonry. He has to warn the Lords before it is too late.
His mind reels, tumbling over its self as he runs and stammers to himself, "The Inkworks, Talashar's Classic, the linking books..."
This is an outright attack against D'ni.
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Rahd'ni jerks awake from his nightmare early, while the sky is still dark and this place - Atlantis - is still hushed by nightly slumber. The city lazes about him, a great, living thing, but it does not sleep. It murmurs, even now, soft utterances and assurances in the back of Rahd'ni's mind with a demure, electric kiss and a faint hum. There is something akin to a lover's embrace, and Rahd'ni savors the sensation gratefully. It is a hushing reassurance and soft, massaging touch to him, lulling him and soothing away the nightmarish memories.
He dreams often of that last night in D'ni. True, Rahd'ni has lived in the ruins for some time after the downfall of that once great, glittering civilization hidden in the rock like a glorious, shining geode, but he cannot honestly consider the empty tomb where he has resided to be D'ni. The light of D'ni has long been long extinguished, snuffed out that night by the choking, black smoke with all of its many citizens, whatever bacterial or viral contagion it may have been that night so very long ago. Yet he dreams of it, even now, his dreams riddled with the fading screams of those unfortunate not to make it through to the relative safety of one of the Common Ages as the smoke reached the city and killed everything in its path before he, too, fled with the Lords and Council to a Age in verdant, fresh spring.
He rubs his bleary eyes and briefly checks the chrono upon his wrist before realizing how futile of an act that is. In D'ni, it is shortly before third bell, that strange twilight hour he has grown accustomed to from being roused by countless nightmares of a past he cannot recall. Even now, the lake should be blushing dusky orange as the bioluminescent algae stir from their own, nightly repose and the platinum white fish of the depths rise to feast upon the plankton and skittering insects dancing over the smoothly calm surface.
Rahd'ni shakes his head and smirks at himself to realize exactly how foolish a thing it is for him to consult his time piece. His chrono is set to D'ni time, and not the time of this Age. Rahd'ni knows that the passage of time in each Age is unique. Each Age revolves upon its axis and about its corresponding star by its own pace. He has penned Lantea to have a slightly shorter day that D'ni, but the precise current time is still a mystery to him. It may be in the late evening or early dawn.
Rahd'ni rises quickly and silently. However, despite his caution, the door to the room opens and, judging from the gentle footsteps, he is joined by another. He glances over his shoulder and turns upon his heel to face a woman in pale, pink uniform, not unlike the soft, muted salmon hues of the Guild of Healers. Even without that, something instinctively conveys that she is a healer. Rahd'ni bows his head formally to her, as well as the hulking Ronon.
"Is there something you need, Rod-Rahd'ni?" the woman asks tenderly. "It's still early. Maybe something to help you sleep?"
He shakes his head and smiles in polite decline. "No, no. I couldn't sleep much longer anyway." He frowns momentarily before inquiring. "It is early?"
"Little after dawn," Ronon answers briskly.
The nurse rolls her eyes and checks her watch. "Quarter to seven local time."
Rahd'ni nods and murmurs distantly, "Never past third bell."
It is a curious thing, one that has bothered Rahd'ni all these years since his recovery and time in D'ni. He rarely sleeps past third bell, always alert and always ready. Despite this, some distant part of his mind protests that this is wrong, unnatural for him to drag himself from bed so early. Rahd'ni shrugs it off.
"Your days are short, yes?" Rahd'ni inquires.
The nurse flusters, taken aback by the question. "Short? Compared to?"
"A day and night cycle consisting of thirty hours."
The nurse blinks in surprise and laughs, "Much!" She shakes her head oddly, still chuckling to herself. "Days here are about Earth norm." When Rahd'ni says nothing, merely stares with those off putting and curious blue eyes, she explains, "Earth revolves on a twenty four hour day, while Lantea's closer to about twenty three and a half - close enough to not really matter."
"Lantea..." Rahd'ni breathes, tasting the name of this world, this Age, just as he has imagined it. Ronon shifts uncomfortably at the sentiment stirring in his voice, drawing Rahd'ni's attention and sending him blurting out swiftly, "I am sorry." He bows his head once more. "I have disturbed you."
"It's my job to be disturbed by you," the nurse jokes, her eyes sparkling in mischievous delight.
Rahd'ni furrows his brow. "You know me?"
She smiles, a soft, serene smile. "You don't remember me, I know, but I've been with Atlantis for about as long as you have." She shrugs, smoothing a piece of her hair behind her ear sheepishly before launching into dizzying motion. "You're our best-worst patient. I remember this one time, you came in with a splinter that-"
Rahd'ni draws a quick breath as the nurse closes the distance between them, but Ronon quite fortunately and diplomatically intercedes. "Breakfast?"
"Yes..." he whispers. "Yes, of course."
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Breakfast is an entirely interesting affair. Ronon and Rahd'ni meet Teyla in the mess, and Sheppard joins them shortly, still bleary eyed from a night of poor slumber. Sleeping in a cast such as his is a difficult premise, the weight alien and uncomfortable. Every subtle shift of his body, every urge to roll over, every tiny motion has woken Sheppard through the night, leaving him unsatisfied, tired, and cranky, the sensation especially worsened when it seems that each and every member of the expedition insists on wishing him well for the break. He swallows his irritation and curtails his short temper, however, upon seeing Rahd'ni being served in line.
Rahd'ni greets Sheppard with a subtle nod of his head before returning his attention to his tray and plate. He is quiet as the mess attendant cautiously serves him a sampling of everything that does not contain citrus elements. Sheppard notes with a small smirk that it is one of the galley chefs that has been with Atlantis since shortly before Rodney disappeared, likely one to have suffered at least one brutal, spiteful tongue lashing from the physicist for serving up something "un-edible" in Rodney's all too humble opinion. Rahd'ni politely abstains from any commentary save a silent bob of his head in thanks for the service. Ronon says nothing as he fills a tray for Sheppard as well, but the John sees it has not escaped the Satedan's notice either.
Rahd'ni eyes the people gathered about the mess warily, his eyes darting back and forth, sweeping over these strangers. There is so much movement, too much movement. Each subtle shift of weight, every tiny hand gesture, snaps Rahd'ni attention until he feels dizzy and confused. He drops his gaze to the floor, to the unchanging mottled patches of color blooming upon the smoothly worn metal.
"Are you alright, Rahd'ni?" Teyla inquires softly.
He nods but does not look up.
They sit together at a far table in the corner by the windows where Rahd'ni does not have to watch the chaotic motion of the crowd, and, for a moment, there is something so surreally familiar and homey about the vignette. This is how they used to eat, ages ago, before D'ni. Yet, instead of laughing and joking as they once did, awkward, pregnant silence spans between them, as wide and impossibly vast as the years of Rodney's absence as they pick at their food in wait for something to break the spell. Eating offers some small means of distraction from that oddity, but that only lasts so long as the food does, leaving the silence roaring once more between them. Rahd'ni further stalls by feeding small scraps of meat to Jeruth where the strange little creature hides in his knapsack until even Jeruth gives a little burp and curls up to nap off the heavy meal.
It is entirely fortunate then that the silence is quickly broken by a somewhat hesitant voice. "Rahd'ni?" All heads turn to spy the newcomer, who quickly introduces himself and extends a friendly handshake. "Dr. Daniel Jackson."
Rahd'ni rises and formally greets the man by taking not his hand but his wrist, addressing him with the respect due to a ranking guildsman. "Rahd'ni." He bows his head slightly before gesturing to the table. "Please, join us."
Jackson's eyes flicker with uncertainty for but a moment to Sheppard - who nods - before pulling up a chair. "I'm guessing you don't remember me?" When Rahd'ni shakes his head, Jackson goes on softly, treading dangerous ground with caution, "Rahd'ni, I was wondering if it would be alright if I asked you a few questions later?"
Rahd'ni tenses visibly. "About?"
Jackson swallows and drops his gaze for a moment. "D'ni." Rahd'ni's eyes narrow, but Jackson goes on swiftly. "I know this must be hard for you, but I'm an anthropologist. I study different peoples, their history, and their culture." At the sight of Rahd'ni's scowl, he shakes his head. "I'm sorry. That was rude of me." Jackson retreats slightly, "This must be hard enough for you without me butting in. I was just curious about..."
Before Jackson can blunder onwards, Rahd'ni silences him with a small raise of his open palm. "No, no. It is alright. I meant no disrespect myself. Curiosity is a virtue held in high esteem by the D'ni." Sheppard raises an eyebrow at the poise and manners he had never seen in Rodney, but Rahd'ni sweeps his hand in beckon before him, a welcoming gesture. "Please, by all means, you may ask me anything."
Jackson blinks, equally taken back by Rahd'ni response before composing himself and blurting out, "Well, um…" The anthropologist shuffles through his notes and his journals before plucking a plain piece of paper and a pen from his things, ready to take notes on any small tidbit Rahd'ni might offer. "Perhaps we could start simple... maybe with government?"
Rahd'ni snickers, his blue eyes flashing with mischief. "Government is a simple starting point?"
"Er… we could start somewhere else if you prefer." Jackson flusters.
Rahd'ni shakes his head once more. "No, no. We can begin there if you wish." He swallows and looks down, gathering his thoughts before speaking slowly, with an even, collected tone that surprises all in attendance. "D'ni is governed by a council consisting of the eighteen Grand Masters and 19 elected representatives from each major guild, presided over by the Five Lords."
"A republic?" Sheppard ventures
Rahd'ni gives another shake of his head. "No. In a true republic, the representatives are elected by the people directly. In D'ni, the representatives of the guilds are elected from within the guilds to ensure that the representative in question is both an expert within their field and adept in the fine art of persuasion. It is somewhat a deliberative democracy."
"Do you know if D'ni was always ruled this way?" Jackson presses curiously.
Rahd'ni gives a quick shake of his head and explains, "There was a time when D'ni was ruled by great kings of men, the last of which being Kerath, the Brave One. It was Kerath who believed that D'ni should not be ruled by one man. During his reign, he furnished the construction of a new Guild Hall to provide the resources necessary of a council of his design before abdicating his throne to the first council."
"He sounds as though he was a wise and just leader," Teyla reasons gently, dipping her head slightly.
Rahd'ni rather matter-of-factly raps his knuckles on the table, his expression serious and respectful as he does. The others blink and stare in wide eyed amazement at the gesture, their faces blanching at the pale scars that mar the balled fist. Rahd'ni freezes at their expressions, flushes hotly at the obvious social error, and tucks his hand under the table and out of sight.
Sheepishly, Rahd'ni hangs his head and murmurs, "I am sorry."
"No, it's okay," Sheppard states soundly yet gently, unused to having to constantly reassure a man who had once been so stubborn, so headstrong.
Jackson furrows his brow and inquires, "What was that – the drumming?"
Rahd'ni looks down at his scarred hand lying in his lap and blushes furiously once more. "It is the D'ni way to show agreement or approval."
He grows sheepish and withdraws once more. A portion of Rahd'ni feels quite secure in this position and among these people, as though he has been here before. Yet, warring with that is the sensation of alienation, exacerbated by the intrigued stares, raised eyebrows and furtive glances passed between the others. It is the sentiment of curiously precarious poise, something in between belonging and not, as a puzzle piece that does not perfectly match the required shape yet has been wedged into place regardless.
Dr. Jackson says something that Rahd'ni misses, and he flushes once more, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry. What was that?"
The doctor furrows his brow in concern before pursing his lips together and presenting Rahd'ni with a sheet of vellum that Rahd'ni recognizes as his abandoned letter. "I was just commenting on the complexity of the language. I was wondering if, perhaps, you would consider teaching me to read and write it?"
"Yes," Rah'dni murmurs oddly, his eyes clouded and his voice distant. "Yes, of course." He blinks once more before speaking again. His eyes gloss with a sorrowed sheen, but his words come steadily and evenly from his lips. "Although, it would be easier with a copy of the Rehevkor."
"Hm?" Jackson raises a brow, curiosity piqued by the word.
Rahd'ni shifts his weight uneasily and fidgets with his scarred, mangled hands, clearly bothered by something. "It is the D'ni lexicon. A children's primer." Rahd'ni must notice the nervous action in himself, for he presses his hands down firmly upon the table before continuing, "I shall teach you without it." He glances about, fruitlessly seeking something, and purses his lips together. "We will need supplies. Quills, ink, paper."
Daniel flusters momentarily and flushes. He has known from the stroke weight and style depicted by the writing in Rahd'ni's journal that the D'ni language is a script written in quill; he had not been expecting to write it himself. As such, he is without the required supplies and not entirely certain where, on such a technologically advanced city as Atlantis, he will ever find a quill or pot of ink for himself. The archeologist wonders briefly and hopefully if perhaps Teyla's people might be able to offer a supply of suitable supplies.
"Um. Let me work on that one," Jackson replies sheepishly.
"You've got time, Doc," Sheppard pipes up, fiddling with his crutches.
Rahd'ni glances to him, his face abruptly ashen and pale, but the colonel smiles warmly in a rather disarmingly familiar smirk that eases the man visibly as Sheppard announces, "Radek asked me this morning to ask if you'd join him in the labs. He's been buggin' me since last night. He's dying to ask you about how those books work." He pauses, biting his lip uncertainly before asking, "You remember Radek, right?"
"Please. I suffer from serious cranial trauma, not stupidity," the man snaps in such familiar snark that it thrills all gathered at the table for but the briefest of moments before he cows himself once more and whispers, "I am sorry. Forgive me."
"It's okay, Rahd'ni, really, it is." Sheppard assures him as he clambers to his feet, shrugging off the incident as best he can to keep from frightening or offending the stranger that is Rahd'ni. "C'mon. Let's get heading down to the lab before Radek chews my head off."
"Of course." Rahd'ni rises and bows his head stiffly and formally. "Thank-you for the company."
xxx
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Rahd'ni breathes a sigh of relief as soon as he and Sheppard are safely out of the dining hall. It is difficult to force himself to be so still and so at ease amid so many people, and the unease creeps back into him when he finds the halls to be just as crowded. D'ni had been a bustling metropolis in the rock, but the people of Atlantis are innumerable by compare after so many years alone in the dim, watery twilight of the ancient city. They seem to infest every tiny scrap of space to this city, occupying every nook and cranny, or at least the few places where Sheppard deigns to escort him. They clamor and pulse, moving with such haste that Atlantis seems less a bustling city and more a jostling ant colony. It is fortunate, then, that Sheppard's route to the lab is swift and direct indeed, and even more fortunate when Rahd'ni notes that the lab is occupied only by a few, scant individuals.
Rahd'ni is instantly put back at ease upon seeing the lab its self. The place is clearly designed for function over form, with several long tables set at an appropriate height for both leaning over and sitting before at one of the many stools. The lab is furnished with computer terminals of both Atlantis's native technology and something a bit clunky in nature by compare- quite obviously the human technology. Many work stations are cluttered with tools, half-finished projects, and books filled with paper notes.
To the far side, stands a tall, upright board of a white, plastic material that draws Rahd'ni close. He surveys the object with great care. Tiny, rounded dimples here and there mar the otherwise smooth surface beneath a rather intricate assortment of drawings upon the surface in blue and black ink denoting equations and quick sketches relating to some simple wormhole theory. He smiles warmly at the thing but notes a small error amid the many computations. Rahd'ni silently reaches down to the steel well at the base to select a marker and correct the error before adding a few swift annotations to complete the series.
Someone – Sheppard – clears his throat behind Rahd'ni rather pointedly, drawing his attention; Rahd'ni flushes and sets the marker back in its place. "Forgive me."
"No, it's alright," Sheppard back peddles quickly. "I just… I didn't want you to think you had to get caught back up in work so fast. Doc's orders say you're supposed to be taking it easy."
Rahd'ni purses his lips together in a petulant scowl. "Correcting a childish mistake in near basic calculation hardly constitutes work."
The colonel puts his hands up in concession. "Yeah, yeah. Just doing what the doc tells me."
"As I recall, Dr. Keller had similar orders for you." Rahd'ni smirks coyly, folding his arms across his chest, and he simpers smoothly, "Wheeling about the city as my personal escort does not seem fitting with her orders for bed rest and relaxing."
Sheppard flusters and struggles briefly to find a good response. Years ago, he and Rodney had sparred verbally day in and day out, even during rather dire and somewhat inappropriate situations. He is unaccustomed to summoning up a joking barb worthy of McKay's sarcasm and mildly afraid that anything he might say would offend this strange creature masquerading about in Rodney McKay's body.
Instead, the colonel swallows his pride, shrugs, and flatly states, "Fair enough." He turns his wheelchair about and calls to the far side of the lab, "Radek, he's all yours!"
Rahd'ni watches him go and turns his attention to the other side of the lab, to the wiry little man approaching. He bows his head in a slight downward inclination, a subtle dip to show his respect. It is but a small gesture of respect for a man who, according to what he has gathered, is of equal if not higher social rank to him. Rahd'ni does not trust these people yet enough to show any more courtesy than that which is required in the most basic of decorum.
There is an odd moment where neither man says a word, unsure of how to address the other, before Rahd'ni dares break the uncomfortable silence. "What can I do for you, Radek?"
"Oh, ah, yes of course," the smaller man stutters out, flying into action to gather up a few things and spill them out on the table before Rahd'ni. "Uh… let us get started, yes?"
Rahd'ni forces himself to smile. "Yes."
xxx
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Evidence catalogue 43
Item is a small scrap of vellum measuring less than one (1) inch in height and two and a quarter (2.25) inches in width. The item was recovered by Grand Master Derentheni from Rahd'ni's personage upon his rescue and subsequent arrival in D'ni. It is penned in an alien language in the bookworlder Rahd'ni's hand - a language strikingly similar to that initially exhibited by the Lady Ti'ana, as well as series of seven symbols to the side of each entry. It appears to be a list, with several of the entries hastily crossed out. Item has been assessed Grand Master Jadaris, Guild Master Keelehn and Guild Captain Minkata of the Guild of Maintainers to verify the authenticity of this document, as well as myself to verify the identity of the author from writing comparison.
After further inquiry from Lord R'hira, the item was presented to me for study. What follows is my personal translation, witnessed and verified by both Rahd'ni and the Lady Ti'ana.
"M3Y-465
M3Y-565
M44-5YN
M6R-125
M7G-677
M7"
The last entry has been ripped partially, beyond the ability to accurately provide translation, but the letter and numeral suggest an entry similar to or identical to the prior entries. These entries fit no cipher known to the Guild Library, nor to Lady Ti'ana, nor to Rahd'ni.
The symbols remain intriguing. According to Rahd'ni, they have no direct translation. Rahd'ni has referred to them vaguely as "addresses" but does not seem to bear any recollection as to what he had intended with these entries, nor any means to explain an associated coordinate system in D'ni. Grand Master Derentheni of the Guild of Healers assures me that this is to be expected of a body and mind that has suffered to the length that Rahd'ni has and which has not been granted the time to properly mend. The symbols are in no language nor geographic code known to the Guild of Linguists nor the Guild of Cartographers.
This is my final summary on the item. Further detailed analysis logs can be viewed upon request.
-Grand Master Gihran of the Guild of Linguists.
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By the close of the first week, Rahd'ni is thoroughly exhausted. Dr. Jackson and Radek consume his day entirely. His mornings are spent detailing the D'ni culture, while his afternoons are spent in the labs with Radek, discussing and debating the various technological merits of the D'ni. His only small comfort is returning to the infirmary at the end of the day for the fleeting touches and serene smiles of Dr. Keller, although he cannot bring himself to admit that to her, not without knowing who she truly is, without knowing who he is.
In time, Rahd'ni finds that Radek is an eager and worldly intelligent man, one who Rahd'ni must mentally – but most assuredly not verbally - concede is worthy of his mettle. He asks many questions and difficult ones at that, so many that Rahd'ni wonders if, perhaps, Dr. Jackson's inquiries of government seem almost infantile by compare. He presses and digs, rooting for the individual factors in detail before assembling the components into a semblance of the Whole. Even the great Lady Ti'ana would have approved of Radek's insatiable curiosity and the method to his investigation.
Many of Radek's questions are valid, yet laughable in their simplicity. Upon returning the special lenses to Rahd'ni, he inquires about their use and design. Rahd'ni turns the goggles over in his hands, marveling himself at the now lost elegant and subtle engineering of D'ni craftsmen. He explains that these are the tools of the Surveyors and the Miners, made of a durable enough material to shield and protect the eyes from any hazardous debris, demonstrating the tight custom fit to his own head to prevent contact with irritating dust. He summarizes briefly the various functions of the Miners and Surveyors, from expanding D'ni to serving as explorers.
However, some of Radek's questions are difficult and nearly impossible to answer. For example, towards the close of that particular day, the Czech carefully produces a heavily vaulted box and unlocks it to reveal the linking book Rahd'ni left behind during his hasty retreat from the Lantean beach back to D'ni. Without saying a thing, Radek reverently places the leather bound tome in Rahd'ni's waiting hands, allowing the man to turn the book over in his hands. He cracks the spine gently and surveys the linking panel displaying the Book Room of the Guild House, well aware that the scientist is staring at the glowing image in deserved awe.
Rahd'ni closes the book and sets it down upon the table, waiting for Radek to speak; when he does, it is in a soft utterance that sounds almost a prayer. "This is….. just incredible."
"Indeed," Rahd'ni agrees in earnest, feeling his heart swell and warm with pride. "The D'ni called it 'the Art.'" He smiles serenely, stroking the leather cover with the just the tips of fingers before breathing, "It is, you know? A sophisticated combination of both science and aesthetics to produce a stable Age."
"Stable?"
Rahd'ni nods. "Yes. Stable."
Radek furrows his brow. "Stable, how?"
"An unstable Age is one prone to self-destruction, generally a world close to either its inception-" he pauses, a darkness flickering across his gaze mingled with what appears to be a liberal dose of grief. "-Or demise." He purses his lips but momentarily before continuing, "An unstable Age is any age which has uncertain properties, potentially making it highly dangerous for even mere visitation."
"And these…. unstable Ages… do they occur frequently?" Radek inquires, his mind clearly nearly as constant a whir as Rahd'ni's own.
Rahd'ni shakes his head. "The occurrence of an unstable Age is not a common one, not with careful planning and writing to involve hazardous elements within the structure of the Age and contradiction within the text. Very often, minor accidental errors within the text of an Age are simply corrected without further issue. Occasionally, a text is so distorted that it warrants destroying, but that very rarely occurs accidentally."
"What about intentionally?"
Rahd'ni tightens slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Radek had known Rodney McKay for too long before his disappearance not to spot the tension. The Czech holds his breath. He has crossed a line somehow, broached something ill with Rahd'ni. In the past, he would have simply waited for Rodney to browbeat him with a barrage of insults against his character and intelligence, yet this is not the same Rodney McKay, leaving Radek at a loss for how to resolve this minor transgression.
He opens his mouth to apologize, but Rahd'ni cuts him off before Radek can say anything, grinding out through his teeth, "To create or trade in an illicit Age is a very serious crime."
It is this statement which Sheppard arrives, wheeling slowly through the doorframe. The coldness, the distance to Rahd'ni's voice and the blanched pallor to Radek's expression gives him pause, and, as neither man has noted his presence, he hangs back, lingering at the entryway, curious. The Rodney McKay of old would be simpering and swearing by now, but this careful, cautious creature reins himself in, holding tight to what is most assuredly an unhealthy dose of emotions meant for venting. What emotions and stemming from what incidences, Sheppard can only guess.
Radek flummoxes at the abrupt curtness. "My apologies." He pauses for a moment, musing on the sudden shift in Rahd'ni's previously congenial attitude. "I take it others have… in the past?"
Rahd'ni nods slowly and carefully. "Indeed."
"To what outcome?" the Czech presses.
Sheppard sits a little straighter in his chair, pricking his ears to the conversation, no matter how wrong it might feel to eavesdrop. His curiosity is piqued, certainly. Rahd'ni has concealed much of his personal life in D'ni from even Sheppard, and the colonel is legitimately intrigued by these small, fleeting glimpses into what seems Rahd'ni's honest experiences in that vast, lonely cavern.
"Intentionally illicit Ages are stricken from D'ni and burned in an incinerator by the Maintainers." Rahd'ni prods at nothing on the table, a nervous gesture, surely. "Destroyed before the Age might destabilize any further."
"And the creators of these worlds?" Radek inquires, his curiosity honestly piqued by the subject.
Suddenly, Rahd'ni's entire body language and facial expression shifts from one of simmering irritation and patronizing that had previously occupied his features to one of a cold sorrow. "Writing an Age, creating an Age, is not the same as creating a world. It is establishing the link." Rahd'ni muses solemnly. "To think otherwise, to confuse linking with true creation, is beyond criminal."
Radek swallows and nods slowly. He has crossed some great gulf in understanding in the vast gray field where science, social customs, and ethics blur together, out in the wild blue yonder with stem cell research and genetic manipulation. He reminds himself, when faced with this coldness, that, as Rahd'ni has mentioned, the craft of creating these incredible books is an art to the D'ni man that Rodney McKay has become. Radek wills himself to recall not to be so cavalier in the future in regards to these subjects.
Tactfully, Radek attempts to steer the conversation away from such a touchy issue. "How are these books for writing Ages created?"
"I cannot tell you." The words are muttered hotly under Rahd'ni's breath, accompanied by a quick, curt shake of his head.
Radek raises an eyebrow. "Cannot, or will not?"
"Cannot," Rahd'ni repeats firmly, perhaps too firmly, icing over as he does. As Radek stares, the guildsman sighs and shakes his head once more, a quick, curt toss. "The manufacture of both books and ink are carefully guarded secrets of the Guild of Book Makers and the Guild of Ink Makers, neither of which divulged the information to me during my stay in D'ni."
Radek blinks at the stern explanation and catches Sheppard's eye, begging for silent reprieve, which is swiftly granted by the colonel. "Come on, Rahd'ni. Dinner awaits."
Rahd'ni turns slowly, glancing warily over his shoulder before visibly calming. "Of course." He looks to Radek, staring down his nose at the shorter man as he gathers his things and stuffs them in his knapsack
2. "We will continue this another time, then, yes?" It is said less as a question and more as an order; Radek nods, freeing Rahd'ni to return his attention to Sheppard and replace his expression with one of serene calm. "Shall we?"
Sheppard nods and forces a smile, although it is uncomfortable at best. "Yeah."
The two move towards the mess hall at a leisurely place, practically strolling along the promenades, one on wheels and one on foot. Atlantis is beautiful at this hour, utterly tranquil and relaxing. The sea shimmers in radiant gold as the last remnants of daylight dance sparkle atop the low, rolling waves. The sun burns a crisp red against a warmly orange sky to the west, while soft, blue twilight approaches steadily from the east, replete with lavender sky and clouds kissed blushing pink. Atlantis herself seems suspended in time some glorious, dreamy place halfway between day and night.
Perhaps lulled by the atmosphere, Rahd'ni dares break the silence as they walk. "I am sorry for the display you just saw."
Sheppard blinks but, upon seeing no sense in lying, admits, "I didn't think you saw me."
"Regardless, my behavior was appalling at the least."
Sheppard frowns and shakes his head. No matter how often he hears Rodney McKay apologize, it still seems so very wrong. Rodney McKay apologizes to no man, yet Rahd'ni clearly does and often.
The colonel shrugs it off. "Seems like something important to you."
"Indeed," Rahd'ni murmurs distantly, his eyes taking a dark shadow.
Sheppard rolls along, holding his breath for a moment before offering, "Want to talk about it?"
"Is that all you people ever do?" the man snaps bitterly, waving his hands in clear exasperation. "Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk." He scowls, rubbing his forehead. "It is a wonder that you people ever accomplish anything around here." Sheppard snickers under his breath at that, to which Rahd'ni fumes, "What?"
"It's nothing. It's just… you used to be the most talkative person here. A regular little chatter box."
Rahd'ni stops dead in his tracks, tensing visibly once more, his fist clenching at his side as he snarls under his breath, "I'm sorry I'm not what everyone wants me to be."
Sheppard flushes visibly. "Rod- Rahd'ni…" He stammers, struggling to be sure to say the right thing, although all the words feel wrong, gummy and thick in his throat. "Rahd'ni, you don't have to be anything for anyone." When the other man rolls his eyes, Sheppard persists. "Seriously. We just…. we missed you – we all did. And, it's just weird seeing you so… so…."
"So what?" Rahd'ni barks.
The colonel's heart stutters slightly, and he looks down in his own shame, unable to face Rahd'ni's sharp, accusing gaze when faced so blatantly with the truth. "So different."
Rahd'ni huffs but seems somewhat satisfied with the answer, stepping forward without further outward complaint. Sheppard gives pause for a moment to swallow his guilt. They had been hunting for so long for the old Rodney, hoping and holding their collective breaths for years, so much so that no one had ever dared entertain the possibility that the man that returned to them would not be the Rodney McKay they remembered. He, perhaps, had done this more than any other, likely in the vain aspirations that this whole episode of his cosmic scaled failure could be forgiven or even ignored.
Even now, in the wake of Rahd'ni's return to Atlantis, Sheppard has hoped that Keller and her team could find some way to unlock the lost memories of Rodney McKay. They have each pressed, in their own way, to root out the old Rodney McKay possibly trapped in this shell, so desperate for their friend that they all have forgotten that Rodney McKay is not a man to be pressured into anything willingly. It is only logical that, when met by such opposition, Rahd'ni would eventually dig his heels in and balk or snap as he is now.
"Well?" Rahd'ni's voice cracks like a whip, cutting through Sheppard's mental chastising with a chiding, patronizing tone. "Are you coming?"
Sheppard jerks to attention and wheels swiftly after Rahd'ni. The guildsman moves with a sharp cadence to his strides, a clip that sounds somehow bitter in his anger. Yet, despite that, Rahd'ni moves purposefully slower, enough that the colonel easily keeps pace with him. It is an odd juxtaposition of the childishness of the old Rodney McKay and the quiet care of Rahd'ni.
The colonel heaves solemnly, "The docs like to say that talking about things makes people feel better."
At first, John thinks Rahd'ni is valiantly and rather spitefully ignoring him, but, then the stranger speaks once more, in a whisper so hushed that Sheppard nearly does not catch. "I knew them." The word is spoken with such a thick disdain that it sounds a profanity. "Or so the Council's investigation suggests."
"Who?" John asks hesitantly, almost afraid to cross Rahd'ni further now that he has opened ever so slightly.
"Veovis and A'Gaeris," Rahd'ni hisses cruelly through his teeth, shaking his head. "This was before I arrived in D'ni proper, and certainly before anything I can recall." He spits venomously, "Bastards kept me like their pet."
Sheppard waits while Rahd'ni collects himself and gathers his thoughts once more before the man speaks. This is a different and open side to Rahd'ni in regards to his time in D'ni, and Sheppard is ready to hear, regardless of what Rahd'ni might have to say. A part of his mind screams that it is perverse masochism that drives his need to know, so that he may further regret and loathe himself for the mistake of even losing Rodney in the first place.
"I do not remember any of my time in their captivity, but I can be sure it was… unpleasant at best." Sheppard nods, his gaze straying to the scars upon Rahd'ni's once smooth, pristinely manicured hands as the man goes on. "I dream of it, sometimes. Not in anything clear enough to remember, mind you, but in fragments large enough to know I was suffering in their grasp. Physically, mentally, and emotionally"
The words rush out of the colonel's mouth before he can bite his tongue. "Rahd'ni, I'm sorry. We tried everything we could to find you."
Rahd'ni shakes his head. "Lady Ti'ana found me. She saved me. She found A'Gaeris's journal and translated what she could of it." Rahd'ni shudders visibly. "He was quite thorough. In it, he documented his precise methods of controlling me, of bending me and breaking me to his will, to behave like his perfect little pet. The beatings, the starving, the punishments, sleep deprivation, and intense isolation." He swallows a thick lump in his throat, turns and glares at the colonel. "So, you will excuse me if I am hard pressed to conform myself to behave however it is you want me to."
"I'm sorry," Sheppard repeats once more. "Really, I am."
"Sure," Rahd'ni simpers, glowering at the man as his side and folding his arms across his chest in an entirely childish display.
They saw nothing for a long moment before Sheppard pipes up once more. "Look, Rahd'ni, I'll level with you." When the guildsman raises an eyebrow, the colonel explains, "I've been trying. We all have. It's just…."
"What?"
Sheppard shrugs and looks away, averting his gaze sheepishly. "These days, no one knows if we're coming or going with you." When Rahd'ni grimaces, the colonel smirks and teases, "Look, maybe if you shared something with the group, maybe, just maybe, we'd have some kind of idea of how we should be treating you."
"As any other man of rank," the guildsman replies with heavy consternation.
"Humor me."
Rahd'ni taps the railing with his fingertips and gives a bob of his head. "Alright, alright." He chews his lip and, then, issues the proviso, "One thing. Just one thing, and there we let this go." Sheppard is unsurprised by the all too McKay-like ultimatum, and, so, Rahd'ni baits, "What do you want to know?"
There is so much Sheppard wants to know, so much that he knows the man is unlikely to remember, granted Keller's assessment of Rahd'ni; his mind still reeling at the many possibilities, he blurts out, "Tell me about them, then. About the people that did this to you."
"A'Gaeris and Veovis?" Rahd'ni murmurs before admitting callously, "I know only as much about them as I have been told through colored perspectives. Veovis was one of the finest of Writers D'ni had ever seen, and he threw it all away. Everything." Rahd'ni's voice is strained as he works to rein himself back into some semblance of the same dour control he has attempted to maintain for so long. "Lady Ti'ana had explained to me once that Veovis hated her husband, Master Aitrus, for his betrayal of their blood and their culture, a crime that Veovis could never forgive."
"I don't…." Sheppard furrows his brow as he trails off, unable to follow these fractured, scattered data points of whatever it is that Rahd'ni wishes to convey.
"Lady Ti'ana was ahrotahntee, like me. She was, you would say…. outside of D'ni blood." Rahd'ni's features melt ever so slightly as he recalls the woman he once had the honor of calling friend. "She came from the surface world." He smirks, ever so slightly in his nostalgia. "Walked right down the Path and into D'ni." Rahd'ni shakes his head and blinks, turning away from Sheppard to hide the prickling at his eyes. "She was like no other in D'ni. She was a tremendous woman of great strength and heart, but even that could never be good enough for Veovis. He could never trust an outsider like Lady Ti'ana. He and Aitrus had once been great friends, but, when Master Aitrus took Lady Ti'ana's hand, it put a rift between them. Lady Ti'ana said that when Master Aitrus taught her to Write, to Write a proper D'ni Age, it proved too much for Veovis."
Rahd'ni pauses and turns at a window facing out over the glittering Lantean Sea; Sheppard swallows and dares inquire further, "What happened?"
Rahd'ni shrugs oddly. "According to Master Aitrus and Lady Ti'ana, after their falling out, he fell into A'Gaeris's snare. A'Gaeris had been accused of several crimes many years ago, stripped of his guild rank and title, and his betrothal broken off. He wanted to bring the Council and the Guilds, to destroy them as they had destroyed him. A'Gaeris framed both Master Aitrus and Veovis. He brought evidence to both suggesting that the other engaged in the trade of illicit Ages, persuading both that he had changed and wanted to prove his worth with this evidence and regain some of his lost dignity." He shakes his head tersely. "Neither one was. It was A'Gaeris. It always was."
The abrupt coldness to Rahd'ni's tone sends shivers down the colonel's spine. Sheppard flashes back to the terse conversation he had overhead between Rahd'ni and Radek, to the seriousness of the offense against D'ni culture to intentionally create and traffic a singular illicit Age, let alone any other.
"After two of the Maintainers went missing, a search of the Ages found that they had been murdered and left in one of Veovis's Ages, butchered with Veovis's dagger. This was, of course, A'Gaeris's handiwork, but the evidence pointed directly to Veovis. Coupled with the evidence of his apparent trade in illicit Ages, brought forth by Master Aitrus as orchestrated by A'Gaeris, the Council could not help but render a guilty verdict." Rahd'ni bites his lip and looks out listlessly upon the sea, finding some small measure of comfort and solace there.
"What did they do to him?"
Rahd'ni sighs heavily and almost mournfully. "It is not in the D'ni nature to perform executions. Veovis was sentenced to live out the rest of his natural life in exile on a Prison Age. It is an Age which only harbors a single man, the condemned, kept by the Maintainers and cut away from the D'ni as a cancer."
"Just like that?" Icy tendrils snake about Sheppard's heart, but he must know. "They just left him there?"
"Just like that," Rahd'ni repeats firmly. "It is the D'ni way." Rahd'ni turns and spies the horror clearly written on Sheppard's face to consider such a fate as to be marooned on a distant world without any companionship or supplies, and Rahd'ni blanches and blurts out, "Oh, do not misunderstand. The D'ni were not inhumane. The Maintainers tended to his needs, linking supplies on a regular schedule, and prisoners have always been provided with a linking book back to a secured Book Room in the Hall of Maintainers should they require emergency assistance. But, it did not matter. He did not stay there for long."
"A'Gaeris?" Sheppard ventures.
"Got it in one." Rahd'ni folds his arms across his chest and puffing up somewhat. "The so-called Philosopher had another in his pocket who loathed ahrotahntee perhaps as much as he; Suahrnir of the Maintainers. With his help, freeing Veovis from his Prison Age was a trifling matter."
"Where did you fall into this?"
Rahd'ni shakes his head. "I do not know. After that, Veovis and A'Gaeris went into hiding to continue their plotting and preparation.
They stand in silence once more before John says, "If you don't mind me asking…"
"Hrm?" Rahd'ni hardly even addresses the statement.
Sheppard swallows. "What happened then? To D'ni, to all of it?"
Rahd'ni closes his eyes. "They happened." He shakes his head once more, changing his mind. "She happened. After everything had been said and done, the Council and the Lords sentenced Veovis to death, but Lady Ti'ana spoke out for him. She had found the evidence that Veovis had been framed in the pages of A'Gaeris's journal. She felt…. sorry for him, even after how Veovis had attacked her family. I was still too grievously injured to give testimony or even be present, but I am told she was most persuasive. She must have been, for the Council agreed not to put Veovis to death but to pen an Age specifically for him and, then, destroy the book for the Age immediately after linking him there. Four writers wrote the Age in separate portions, never viewing the whole body of the Age. Only Grand Master Ja'ir of the Writers, Grand Master Jadaris of the Maintainers, and Lord R'hira were privy to the entire text, and they were three of the most trustworthy men in D'ni. Once it was completed, Veovis was sent through, and the Age was immediately incinerated."
"Then how? How could they do all that if he was trapped on a Prison Age?" Sheppard questions, his curiosity piqued.
Rahd'ni awkwardly shifts his weight. "Despite the fact that Veovis's Prison Age was destroyed, a single book of commentary was penned with but one entry regarding Veovis's linking and the subsequent destruction of the book." He sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, as though pained by these memories as much physically as he clearly aches emotionally. "Master Jadaris commented that there seemed an after image of Veovis upon his linking."
"Like he didn't… link?"
Rahd'ni sniffs hotly. "Oh, it's certain he linked through to his Prison. No, there can be no doubting that, not with as trustworthy of witnesses as there were upon record for the expulsion." He frowns, a deep expression that creases fine lines in his face that had not been there before Rodney vanished, testimony to the years that have slipped away. "Master Jadaris pondered that it was the cause of a subtle but not disastrous incongruity to the text. No Age had ever been penned as such, and, despite the care taken to craft Veovis's Prison Age, Master Jadaris felt it possible that this was simply a tiny fault in the Age, nothing of grave concern." Rahd'ni snorts at the irony and shakes his head, tousling his long hair. "Pft! Nothing, indeed."
Sheppard furrows his brow. It is a puzzle, a logic game, and, despite his outward appearance as little more than a flyboy jock, Sheppard is a deep lover of such mind-teasers. Word puzzles, Rubix cubes, Sudoku, the works. However, his understanding of these D'ni Ages and their mechanics is too limited to make anything resembling an educated guess as to how Veovis and A'Gaeris could have perpetrated an escape as clever as that, with or without the help of whoever that Suahrnir person was.
Unencumbered by any expectations and distracted by Rahd'ni's tale, the colonel does not notice that they have easily slipped back into their old roles until he rolls his eyes and ventures, "Well, then, if you're as smart as you keep saying, how'd they do it?"
"I can only guess, based on what I would have done." His tone is resigned and hollowed.
"Alright, then, what would you have done in their shoes?"
Rahd'ni respires in long, slow draws, the controlling respiration of a man composing himself, clearly quite deeply unsettled by the supposition. "A'Gaeris was a skilled Writer before his fall. Not nearly as skilled as Veovis, certainly, but a guildsman of great promise. With the precise composition, A'Gaeris could have created a link from any other Age directly to the cell which held the book. With absolutely perfect timing, it could be done, and the after image may very well have been A'Gaeris in the disguise linking through after Veovis with a linking book to…. well…. anywhere."
The colonel bites his lip and comments, "You sound like you've through this through."
Rahd'ni remains nonplussed, even as he issues a rather cutting barb. "I've had time enough to consider all the options and eliminate the less likely possibilities." Rahd'ni turns to him and glowers his eyes glistening with unshed tears in the last light of day. "There. We spoke of it. Your people say talking about things helps? Nonsense. The D'ni are dead and gone, and talking about it will do nothing to bring them back. It only hurts."
The question burns in the back of Sheppard's mind, a bright, searing flame penetrating deep into his heart and twisting as a knife blade there, embedding its self down to the core. Why Rodney? A'Gaeris and Veovis had kept him, but to what end? The two sound as though they had been capable enough to accomplish the destruction of D'ni without McKay's help. Sheppard shuddered to think of it. With the genius of Rodney McKay held at their mercy, there is no telling what sorts of horrors they may have dealt. And, then, Sheppard knows, with crystalline certainty ringing through him. He will not ask that question, not ever, because he already knows the answer. Whatever happened to the D'ni, Rodney McKay played some part in it, perhaps small but more probably grand, before torture and injury gave way to Rahd'ni.
"Are we through here?"
"Yeah." Sheppard nods, somehow numbed by the familiarly of this once more and simultaneously horrified by the man before him. "Thanks, Rahd'ni." The colonel forces out past an uncomfortable lump lodged quite firmly in his throat, "I mean it." He tries, unsuccessfully to shuffle loose the tightness to his chest and heart and, instead, masks it by clearing his throat and changing the subject. "C'mon, Rahd'ni. Dinner awaits."
Rahd'ni claps Sheppard on the shoulder and smiles awkwardly. "Sounds delightful."
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Author's Notes : Yes, it's been a while for any of my stories. Many, many apologies. For those of you who haven't read The Book of Ti'ana, I hope this has started to give you some of an idea about the carefully orchestrated downfall of D'ni without giving too much away too soon. I do hope you enjoy, and, I promise, a far more dramatic chapter to follow as soon as I can get it up.