Fevered Dreams
corpse
I shudder as the word springs unbidden into my mind. Gilleasbachan, my brother, protector, is corpse-like. His skin is deathly pale, even for a wraith, his cheeks and eyes sunken, and neither bandages nor the pitiful scraps of rag that are what remains of his clothes can hide the bones which protrude through parchment skin…
Have I found my brother, only to watch him die?
I mentally slap myself, forcing myself away from this terrifying thought, to concentrate on healing…
But there is so much! Where do I even start?...he is so fragile looking, I'm almost afraid that the moment I touch him, he will shatter….afraid that the lightest touch will cause him more pain…
"Teyla just radioed," John says next to me, making me jump. "The jumper's about 10 minutes away and they sent Beckett—Teyla's sending them straight over here. Seems the gateroom figures if me and Rodney are involved, the odds are we'll need him anyway—"
I nod, murmur, "That's perfect, thank you…"
Why? How? How could she do this? How could anyone do this to anyone else?
He seems so…small…
"May be we should get him cleaned up before Beckett gets here? He's kinda—" John's words break through my thoughts, jolting me to action.
"Yes! Yes," I mutter to myself—cleaning him up, it should have been the first thing I did…adult wraith have no immune system, they are wholly dependent on their healing abilities to stave off sickness and Gilleasbachan is so weak…so terribly weak…he is open to all kinds of infections…the littlest thing could kill him… I cast my eyes around the room for something that will hold water, and at last I spot a large bowl in the corner.
"John, please fill that basin with water from the bathroom there?" I jerk my head in the direction of the bathroom door, not waiting to see if he complies—I trust he will.
Gilleasbachan's silvered hair has fallen in to his face…his hair has been crudely shorn about his shoulders, uneven, hacked at with a dull blade…gently, almost hesitantly I brush it back, cringing as I see how some of it is caught in the blood which has caked on his temple, how many cuts, how many bruises, how many inflamed wheals mar his handsome face…how hollow his checks are, how dark and sunken his eyes…
"Here ya go, fresh…wraith…ocean…how clean can this water be?" John splashes some out of the bowl as he puts it at the head of the bed, but the living mattress absorbs it quickly.
"You'd be surprised," I tell him as I take a washcloth from the pack and soak it in the water. As much as I hate the feel of them, I put on a pair of the nitrile gloves to protect my brother from any contamination my hands may unwittingly carry. At least they didn't pack the latex gloves—they smell terrible!
"You know, I just really can't imagine…"
John's voice fills the background of my mind, a strange, slightly dissonant accompaniment to my task. I start with Gilleasbachan's face, dampening and working the dried blood free of his hair, carefully sponging away layers of caked dirt and blood and unspeakable filth and slime. The area around a jagged cut which snakes across his forehead is hot to the touch and swollen—I fear infection set in before he went into stasis….
This is bad…so very, very bad…
"Sheppard, you told Teyla to send Beckett over here with blankets? What the hell is going on?!"
I spare a glance over my shoulder to see Rodney burst into the room followed by the good Doctor with his medical kit and Sgts. Kierkegaard and Kafka burdened with a washing machine's worth of blankets and towels.
"Tone it down McKay!" Sheppard growls back. "Can't you see we have an injured brother here?"
"Brother?" he sputters. "Whose?"
"Mine," I tell him as I try to stem the bleeding from the cut on Gilleasbachan's forehead—he can't heal and wraith blood doesn't clot... "Major, could you hand me one of those towels, please?"
"Mah God, what happened tae him?" Beckett gasps next to my elbow as he pulls on his own pair of gloves and I gently apply pressure to the bleeding cut. He nudges me aside so he can examine the cut before he begins pulling out a suturing kit.
"Being a queen's slave is not a pleasant position," I say as I dampen the towel, averting my eyes from the sight of Carson carefully stitching up my brother's face.
I uncover Gilleasbachan's right arm, bent in a way that arms were never meant to be bent and being to sponge away the grime. When I brush against what I can only assume is the broken edge of bone under the skin, Gilleasbachan begins to stir, tossing his head restlessly, his breath quick and panicked.
I strip off one of my gloves and begin to stroke his face and whisper to him soothingly. Suddenly, his eyes snap open, and he stares at me in shock, eyes glazed and delirious.
"Mama?" his voice is raw and cracked; with his left hand he reaches out to touch my face, but I push it gently back down onto the bed—it is too dangerous for him to move...
"No, Gilleasbachan. It is Mairghread," I tell him softly, hoping to keep him calm, but this only agitates him more.
"No no, we hid her! I can't let the queen get to her!" he struggles to rise as Carson and I try to hold him down without hurting him more, he is so fragile...
"My brother, the queen is dead and I am your sister! I am Mairghread!" I insist to him, holding his gaze, and cautiously linking minds. I am careful not to go too far; I do not want to hurt him, or dig too deep and destroy his trust. Still what I see is…horrifying, beyond anything I could have imagined…oh, spirits!
Stop it! Leave them alone!
Foolish! Did you think that I would let you escape so easily? Death will not have you!
"Hush, Gilleasbachan," I murmur, trying to disguise the sob that chokes my throat. "You're safe now."
Slowly, so slowly he relaxes, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. "Mairghread?" he laughs and sobs; so many emotions vie for dominance on his face, his thought stumble, tumbling, jumbled in his mind overflowing to mine…
"Yes…yes, dearest, you're home now" I smile reassuringly even as tears begin to flow down my own face. Someone taps my shoulder lightly and I turn to see Carson with syringe, the pink tape across the cap marking it as a mild sedative. His eyes ask me for permission, and I readily grant it—Gilleasbachan has suffered so much, there is no reason he should suffer more.
I do not think he notices the tiny prick as Carson eases the needle into the scant flesh of his arm—the taut muscles relax slowly, a look of peace comes to his face, though it is marred still by the pain which is seems to be irrevocably etched there.
How? The question flits through my mind, with so many subsequent clauses. How is he still alive? How did he manage to elude her? How could anyone do this? How could she do it? How can one person afflict another with such torment?
How?
How?
How?!
HOW?!
A touch on my arm brings me back to the present—Carson gives me a sympathetic smile, and silently encourages me to resume washing my brother so he can heal him, and I obey…
Oh, that Carson could heal him! If only it were as simple as making skin rejoin, bone knit together, but I know it will not, cannot be. Too much, too much has happened to Gilleasbachan—too much sorrow, too much hurt, too much
Torture.
The few images in his mind I saw terrify me, make me sick with their horror. Such abuse I could not have imagined, would not have thought anyone capable of!
How? How?! Damn it, HOW?!
"Mairghread?"
I jerk my head up, to see Carson looking at me with worried eyes.
"Are ye ahlraht lass?" he questions gently, placing a gloved hand on my shoulder—his hand is covered in blood, Gilleasbachan's blood…
…and now my shirt is too…
I nod, though somewhat shakily, trying to pull myself together—so much has happened…
"Yes, yes, just…" I trail off. Just what? Tired? Terrified?
He gives my shoulder an understanding squeeze and returns to his work of sewing my brother back together…
I force my mind to concentrate, my eyes to only focus on one inch of skin at a time, my hands to be steady as I coerce years, centuries, millennia of blood and dust and…I don't want to think what else…off Gilleasbachan's skin…
So disobedient! Tsk tsk! You know you must be punished…
Forget your family! They are dead. There is no reason for you not to enjoy this…
Screams! Such terrible screams! How delicious!
I need to keep my mind off these….visions… I call up from the depths of my mind memories of the before time; Gilleasbachan playing with Durhan and my other siblings in camp, both to entertain themselves and me while the adults made dinner. Him carrying me through the forest, because everyone was going swimming in the lake. His hair was black and thick, his arms strong; muscle stood out under flawless skin.
Now his hair is prematurely silvered in the front, and he is weaker than a newborn. Bones now protrude from under scarred and broken skin, highlighted by livid bruises.
I hate the queen for what she had done. She destroyed my family—did she have to destroy my brother as well?
TBC