A/N--for all of us for whom there was nowhere near enough Shepwhump in this episode.
"How is he, doc?"
Dad's rumbling voice cuts through the silence of the room, shattering, sending it skipping in a thousand directions. Carson and I both let go of breaths we didn't know we were holding as heavy sighs. I let the washcloth I'm using slap noisily back into the water.
"Ah'm not gonnae lie, tae ye lad," Dr. Beckett sighs. "He's nae good. Ah couldnae e'en tell ye what's keeping him alive at this point."
"He always was stubborn," I whisper to myself. "Athair used to say he had fathered the most stubborn wraith ever to be born." My eyes gaze sorrowfully on the wasted form of Gilleasbachan. "Nothing could keep him down."
Except maybe this…
No! Don't even think that! I WONT let him die like this. I won't! I won't! He deserves better.
I take up the washcloth again, trying to rinse out the blood and dirt before I realize that this washcloth is too filthy to use anymore.
"Damn," I mutter under my breath as I take the basin to the bathroom to refill. I only have Gilleasbachan's left leg to finish washing…but…it is so badly hurt, so obviously broken that even under the sedative I'm afraid I might cause him pain.
I watch the bloody, dirty water swirl down the sink drain, following it in my mind as it slowly gets absorbed by the ship, blood and dirt being recycled as much as the water….
How much of my brother's blood has this ship absorbed over the years? How much of my brother's own flesh went into making his stasis pod in the floor?
The basin is full of clean water now so I go back to the room and take up task again, determined that my brother will never, EVER have to experience horrors like those he suffered again.
"Well," announces John lightly as he hops off the other bed. "I you don't need me, I think I'm gonna explore this place. The sergeants here," he nods to Kafka and Kierkegaard, "will keep you company. Ronon, you coming?" he asks my dad, rather pointedly.
Dad's eyes flicker stonily in my brother's direction, but Carson shoos him away. "Go on, Ronon. He'll nae be wakin' soon, and he's in nae condition tae do ana'thin' if he did."
Arguing with Dr. Beckett is the ultimate experiment in futility, and even my dad knows this, so he pushes himself off the far wall and follows John to explore.
Free of distraction, I dedicate myself to the task at hand, namely washing my brother's leg without waking him. I pull a clean washcloth out of one of the packs and dip it in the warm water—I wish I had some of the juniper or lavender or jasmine oil that Dr. Sarah Keller gave me a few weeks ago as an "unbirthday present"—maybe it would cover the smell of antiseptic and blood.
Beside me, having cleaned and stitched the many wounds on my brother's chest, Carson begins attaching the lead wires to the portable EKG. Gilleasbachan is already attached to the machines that measures temperature and blood oxygen levels and I know enough about wraith physiology and the way that the machines take measurements to know that the readings are…not good. Even the oxygen we are giving him is not enough to bring his oxygen saturation to healthy levels. Now the EKG begins to beep out in time with his heart. beep…beep……..beep beep…beep…
Even in the electronic ping I can hear how weak his heart is…how it is struggling to force thin blood through leaking arteries, veins…
"Mairghread?" Dr Becket's gloved hand on mine brings me out of my thoughts and back to the solid reality. "Lass, let me finish this. Can ye start him on another bag o' saline and pop some o' those heat packs under tha blanket's with him? Thanks love."
I nod and mutely obey. More saline—Carson is desperately trying to keep Gilleasbachan's blood pressure high enough that his heart doesn't struggle more than it already is…I want to pour more of myself into him, but I have been forbidden—I am not as strong as when I left Atlantis this morning, and until I can eat a "substantial meal", healing my brother may hurt me. Dr Beckett told me to wait—if Gilleasbachan 'crashes' on the way home, they will need me, but until then, it does not help if I am unconscious beside him.
I crack the heat packs to start the exothermic chemical reaction and carefully place them around my brother under the warm, grey wool blankets.
Suddenly Gilleasbachan begins to moan again and thrash weakly. I hold him down by his shoulder's and glance over at Carson, who is carefully probing the break in my brother's leg.
"Stop!" I beg him. "You're hurting him!"
"I'm sorry," he mutters, "One moment more…" continuing his examination until Gilleasbachan manages to jerk his leg away from the hurtful fingers.
"Sguir! Mas e ur toil e!" Gilleasbachan begs, his eyes glazed and only half-open. His words cut through my heart—stop, please…what must he think is happening to him?
"Ist a-nis, a mhoigein," I murmur in his ear, stroking his cheek, trying to calm him with the simple phrase—hush now sweetheart…
"Done!" Carson puts his hands up in the air, turning to me with eyes brimming with apology. "Ah'm sorry, Ah truly am, but Ah had to see how bad the break is."
I nod, still trying to sooth my distraught brother. "Can't you do something?!" I shout at Carson—Gilleasbachan is in pain—how can I let him be in pain? I have to protect him…
"Aye," he sighs and digs a small IV bag from the packs and connects it to the main lead, adjusting the flow to a trickle so it blends with the saline as it makes its way to my Gilleasbachan's blood. "Morphine. Nothin' stronger Ah'm afraid."
Again I nod, silently running my fingers through my brother's silvered hair as his eyes flutter closed—there is so much pain in his eyes, so many horrors in his mind…how can I ever help him heal?
He is so cold…deathly cold…despite the chemical heat packs we have surrounded him with under the space blankets. I wonder though if soon he will burn with fever. My knowledge seems scant on this point. Will his frail body not fight the infections, and retain this deathlike chill? Or will it recognize the infection, and divert its scant resources towards building a fever?
So much torture…bits of memories continually flash through my mind, always from his eyes….hanging upside down, or worse, right-side up, but hanging, his throat being crushed by the rope until he could hope this was the last time, only to end up gasping on the floor again…. His feet beaten beyond recognition…. Burns with white embers…
The monitors beep softly at my feet, counting his heart beats, measuring the oxygen in his blood while the saline and morphine drip slowly through the line. Beep plapplap…beep…plap….bebeep…plap….beep
"Now, lass, let's see what ye've done tae yer hands."
I jump as Dr Beckett appears silently next to me, his arms crossed, his countenance stern.
Beep…plap…beep…plap…bebeepplap…plap…beep…
"Hop up there, next tae yer brother," he commands me, and I meekly obey, waiting for the lecture which will undoubtedly follow. Sgts. Kafka and Kierkegaard snicker quietly. For some reason, many of the humans find my complacent obedience amusing. Something, I suppose, to do with the fact that I am a wraith as tall, or taller, than most of them, many times stronger, and rather frightening looking, despite eschewing dark, 'gothic' clothing.
"Tsk tsk tsk. Ach! Lass, what did ye do tae yerself?" he clucks his tongue at me as he turns my raw hands over in his and then goes for his 'Mairghread bag'.
"Washed my hands really well?" I reply wryly with a shrug, my eyes wandering to watch Gilleasbachan sleep…peacefully is not the right word. Small muscles twitch in his face, his hand…a pained look never leaves his glazed, half-closed eyes…his breathing is ragged despite the oxygen…
"Ye nearly washed yer skin raht off!" he drags the table with the basin in front of me and positions my hands over it before rinsing them well with an antiseptic solution. "Why on earth did ye do sich a thing?"
"Touching the queen made me feel…tainted. Dirty. Contaminated. Polluted. Unclean," I whisper as he dries my hands gently and proceeds to cover them with a thick cream, mixed with antibiotic ointment.
"Next time, try not tae use plumbers' soap, alraht lass?" he tells me long-sufferingly. He changes his gloves to non-cream covered ones and wraps my hands lightly in gauze before helping me to put on the cotton gloved he likes me to wear when my hands begin to chap from the dry air.
"I'll try," I promise him as he packs up his kit, my eyes again wandering to Gilleasbachan. "Carson, do you think…"
"Ah dunnae know, luv," he sighs heavily and crossed his arms, rocking lightly on his feet. "Just physically, he's in poor shape. Tha' arm an' leg an' his feet will need at least one surgery each, probably more, and ye ken better than Ah the risk of infection fer him."
I sigh, "And thousands of years of torture…."
"Aye." He runs his fingers through his hair.
Our radios crackle suddenly and Rodney's panicked voice screams over them "Beckett! Mairghread! Get down here NOW!!!"
"Rodney, where…" Carson begins, but I simply link with the ship again shove him out the door, telling him to follow my directions—I'll stay with my brother. I guide him through the corridors over Rodney's berating voice and Dad's reprimands for him to shut up.
I link with the ship's sensor's to get a vague, blurred picture of the room they are in, watching Carson burst into the room to find John rolling on the floor in agony while Rodney watches, unsure what to do, but yelling at him nonetheless to stop moving and wait for the witch doctor and Dad looking alert to danger.
"Wha' happened?" Beckett demands as he drops to kneel by Sheppard, who stops rolling on his stomach, revealing that the back of his shirt has been badly burned, and one has to assume that his back beneath is not much better.
In a flash, I recognize the room they are in, and begin laughing, forgetting that I still have my radio on.
"And what is so funny?" McKay asks tartly as I continue to laugh. "You told the ship to not accept destructive commands, and look what happens!"
"Turning on the stove is not generally considered a 'destructive' command, Rodney," I tell him with a grin as I mentally turn it off—nothing to cook at the moment.
"The stove?!" gasps Sheppard, his voice crackling over the radio. "Are you telling me I nearly sat on a stove?!"
"A stove set to high, in fact," I tell him as I open my eyes and return to my brother's side mentally, though I never left physically. "You got off lucky—the stove hasn't seen use in a long time, it could have been much hotter. Mairghread out."
Even with the gloves on, I cannot help the urge to touch my brother, to reassure myself that he is here, to comfort him with a gentle touch.
Did you think that you could save your family, amadon? They are dead—but you will NEVER see them. This will be your punishment—you don't care about your body…how much damage can I do your soul?
I'll never give in to you!
Oh, but I think you will…and I have all the time in the world to make you…
"Sheppard, you, and only you, could get injured by a stove on a hive ship," Rodney taunts him as they burst into the room, John supported between Carson and Dad. I jump off my brother's bed to clear off the other one for John to lie down on. "Everyone else will wait for an ambush or a battle, but not you. Nope. Not Colonel Sheppard. He could suffer life-threatening injuries from an alien's kitchen!"
"One word McKay: citrus," John grinds out between clenched teeth while he waits for me to clean off the second bed. Dad helps him get up and lie on his stomach so Dr. Beckett can tend to him.
I do not know if it was because Gilleasbachan could no longer feel be by his side or if a sudden wave of pain broke through the morphine dyke, but he begins to thrash weakly and cry out.
"Hush, shh," I rush over and try to sooth my brother, who stills under my hand as I brush his hair back from his face. "It's alright. It's me. Remember?"
"Mairghread?" he rasps. "Water? Please?"
I grab a water bottle out of one of the packs and hold it to his lips, helping him to drink. He gulps it greedily until I pull it away.
"Slowly, you'll make yourself sick!" I chide him as I cap the bottle and set it out of sight.
His eyes dart over the room, and I can see the panic building—it breaks my heart to see him panic at the sight of a room...he was once so strong…so fearless…
"Why are we still here?! Get me out! Please!" he begs me, struggling to rise as I gently push him back down.
"Hush, it's alright," I reassure him, climbing up so I am sitting next to him on the bed. "We're just waiting for the puddle jumper to come and take us back to Atlantis."
"Atlantis? No, they'll kill us, the Lantæans will kill us!" he is terrified at the idea, and fights to sit up and flee, but I am much stronger, and hold him still while I try to set his mind at ease.
If I had known all that she did to him before I killed her, I would not have given her such a merciful death!
"No, Gilleasbachan, no. The Lantæans are long dead! My friends live there now! Look!" I point over to where Carson now has John sitting up, his chest bare, drenched in sweat, and McKay is still teasing him. "Carson, he helped me clean you, is making the pain go away. He is a healer. John, he helped me to find you, helped me carry you here. Ronon, McKay…he will make sure we get home safely," I tell my brother, who visibly relaxes somewhat. "Ronon," how do I explain that Ronon is my father, that he has taken care of me from infancy because Athair no longer could, "has adopted me. I am his daughter."
"These humans…your friends?" he asks, still confused, troubled, and now drifting back to sleep under the effects of the morphine and his exhaustion. I can only hope that my words do not trouble him while he sleeps, he needs no more…
"My family," I reply. "Go back to sleep. We'll be home soon."
"Dachaigh," his eyes flutter closed, and his breathing evens out, leaving me alone to contemplate how such my brother's body, frail flesh, could hold such a fiery spirit for so long. It seems unfair that his physical form does not match his spirit in strength, tenacity. And now, it is only this fragile vessel that holds my brother here with me.
"Yes, home," I whisper back to him, though a terrible thought takes hold of my mind—my home is Atlantis, but is his home the Land Beyond the Stars? Home is supposed to be a place of healing—can I offer him even that or only more pain?
TBC
A/N--really sorry for the lack of updates, but I have a few weeks off, so I ought to be able to update more quickly. Thank you for everyone whose hung in there with me! Please leave me a review to let me know what you liked, what you didn't...
Sincerely, Cainwen
amadon--idiot, fool.