Pain
Warning-this is a very dark chapter, with graphic scenes of torture and sexual abuse. You have been warned.
As soon as we reach the jumper, John makes a break for the pilot seat only to be stopped dead in his tracks by Dr. Beckett's barked command.
"Stop right there Colonel! Ye'll nae be flying this thing taeday!" Carson informs Sheppard as the gurney bearing Gilleasbachan is rolled into the back and the wheels locked into place.
"Aw, cummon Carson! It's a sunburn for pete's sake!"
But Dr. Beckett is adamant. "Nae, its not! Ah seem tae recall something aboot ye and Ronon here being half-drowned before Rodney even had the time tae turn on the lights!" a thought seems to strike him. "In fact, all of ye! Mairghread, Ronon, Rodney, John, sit! Back here where I can see ye!"
"What?! Carson, have you lost what little mind you had?! I am NOT sitting next to a sick wraith! Who knows what he has!" Rodney explodes and then considers, "No offence Mary."
"Carson, who do you think is gonna fly this thing?" demands John at the same time as Rodney's outburst, arms stubbornly crossed over his chest in a sign of defiance.
"The same who brought it here!" Carson hisses back at him, stopping just short of shouting remembering Gilleasbachan sleeping restlessly beside him. "Sgt Kafka, please get us out of here. We'll pick up Teyla and Dr. Weir and return to Atlantis quick as this overgrown lorry can take us." He dismissively turns his back on a spluttering John and Rodney, checking my brother's vitals as Sgts Kafka and Kierkegaard take the pilot and copilot's seats respectively.
It's almost unheard of for Dr. Becket to give orders outside of his surgery…even if no one else notices, I can sense how very…troubled he is about all this. Carson is acutely aware of everything that can go wrong with a body under so much water and he is out of his element.
Moreover, I know Michael is on his mind.
Mum tells me I have done a great deal to assuage the guilt and grief that the Atlanteans and especially Carson feel for what happened to Michael, but I think that for Carson, there will always be the fear that any wraith brought in will end up as another Michael. For him, there will always be penance to pay for that great collection of sins.
But at last, even thick-skulled Rodney and stubborn John recognize that this is neither the time nor the place to mess with Dr. Beckett, and so consent to sitting "shot-gun" behind the pilot and copilot seats.
Suddenly, the words click into place in my mind.
"Dr. Weir?" I squeak, my voice suddenly high and childish. What am I going to say? How can I possibly excuse not consulting her about my brother? How can I plead for him? How—
"Mary, chill! That's my job," Sheppard informs me from his place up front—did I say all that out loud?—once again a calm military commander. "Great thing about chain of command—it all comes back to me."
But despite John's reassurances and Dad's arm wrapped comfortingly and protectively around my shoulder, I feel an overwhelming sense of dread as the hatch opens a few too-short minutes later to reveal Mum and Dr. Weir waiting to go home.
A mixed look of relief, concern and pity passes over Mum's face when she takes stock of all of our conditions, all alive and well except for John's new bandages and my brother, so obviously treading near the edge of the cliff of death.
Dr. Weir's face is one of…hatred, horror, disgust, like she were looking at the half-decayed corpse of a monster.
"What is this? What is going on? Rodney? John?" her rage is barely contained…
"Now, just, hang on a minute, Elizabeth," John wheedles in his best convincing voice as he stands up and makes calming, conciliatory gestures with his hands, a boyish grin plastered to his face. "This was on my authority. Prisoners on captured enemy vessels are a military concern. Besides, he's Mairghread's brother and his time was running out."
Dr. Weir's eyes are hard and she stalks aggressively through the back of the jumper to stand nose to nose with Colonel Sheppard. "John, it's a wraith," she spits out the last word like a profanity.
"I know that, Elizabeth. The green skin is kinda a give-away," John is speaking slowly, almost carefully…again, I can't help but feel like something is going on with Dr. Weir that John, Dr. Beckett and a few others know, but aren't telling, aren't going to act on yet…but they're still treating her like an unstable isotope.
"John—" Dr. Weir begins to growl before Dr. Beckett cuts her off.
"Elizabeth," he breaks in, semi-apologetically, but brooking no argument, "Ah agree tha' the colonel should've asked ye first, but wha's done is done. He's mah patient now—an' Ah need tae get him tae mah infirmary, yesterday."
Dr. Weir glares, but gives in. John cedes her his seat, and claims a place in the back with us next to one of the medics, an attractive Frenchwoman. "Hi, how ya doin'?" he smiles at her.
I sigh, and lean back against the hard cold metal of the jumper. I am overcome with a tiredness that will not be denied and I cannot help but yawn. Dr. Beckett does not miss it, and lays a hand on my shoulder.
"Get some sleep lass," he tells me. "Ye need it."
I can't argue, and let myself slide into the warm nothingness of sleep…
"You shouldn't have tried that," a seductive voice purrs in my ear. "I told you, I'm not going to let you have your family—Death can't have you."
My eyes snap open, and I find myself hanging my wrists in a dark room in a hiveship—my neck is on fire and I feel…weak…a weakness that is terrifying—
"I really ought to punish you…" the voice continues as its owner walks into my field of view…
The Queen?!
She trails her hand down my chest—but it is not my chest…wasted, flat, scarred, dirty….male…
"But first, we can't have you starving, can we?" she murmurs in a dangerous, friendly tone as she walks away to my left. My eyes follow her, and to my horror, she walks over to a woman, a human, gagged and kneeling between two guards. I try to scream as the queen's hand plunges towards the woman's chest, but my voice won't cooperate—nothing but a quiet, strangled cry can force itself past the fire in my throat as I watch the murderer drain the woman's life, as she ages and withers to a desiccated husk.
She stands up, watching the drops of crimson blood dribble down her hand with a…carnal pleasure. She turns and walks…seductively over to me—no, no don't you dare! No! I writhe and twist, trying to get away as she stretches out her hand towards me. I wont take that woman's life, even by proxy! I wont I wont I wont I wont!
But there is nothing for me to brace myself against, no way for me to get away from her bloodied hand and the stolen life. My motions become more frenzied as she closes in—suddenly, with a sickening pop my shoulder erupts from its socket, like the cap coming off a volcano, white-hot pain sears and oozes its way from my shoulder, down my arm, my chest…
"Tsk tsk," she shakes her head as she grins demonically, pleased with the sight of me hanging lopsided, one arm straining to its limits, the other as useful as a fire for keeping ice. "You're just making it harder on yourself."
NO! I want to scream as she forces life into me, but even as my throat heals, I can't—I can't breathe, I can't scream, I can't see for the red fog which envelopes my senses like water does a drowning man.
Her hand retracts, and with it the fog, and I am left gasping and cursing her and the womb that bore her. She just smiles at me, stretching out her hand to trail down my chest…a part of my anatomy that I shouldn't have twitches in response to her touch, despite my willing it not to—her touch is hateful, not arousing, but my body refuses to obey my mind—I can no more stop my body from reacting to her touch than I could stop her from killing that woman.
She grins, a feral, sensuous, repulsive smile at my flesh's reaction to her touch, and then she pulls a knife from her belt, trailing it around my shoulders, my back and lower—I want to scream, to curse to kill her, but my voice won't obey, my legs won't kick her…
She stands in front of me, the cut-throat whore, places one hand behind my head, and then kisses me, forcing her tongue into my mouth, sucking at mine till I can't feel it, biting my lips so I can taste blood, and I can't do anything—
Pain—she has stabbed me, dragging the knife down my stomach, cutting me open like a fish to be gutted.
She pulls back and licks her lips, enjoying the taste of my blood, then she licks the edge of the knife. "I told you," she purrs as she slips her hand into the wound, into my gut, "I should punish you…but I think you should enjoy this…"
Oh, Spirits, no, please no! Her hand snakes through my guts, lower, lower, even as her other hand does the same on the outside and her mouth presses itself to mine...please, no, no no no!!!
"Mairghread!"
A sharp pain across my face—
"Mairghread, wake up!"
My eyes snap open to see Carson, John and Dad looking at me with fear and worry in their eyes—my shoulder burns and I'm trembling violently, shaking my head, and muttering.
"Please, no, don't let her, please, please no!" I babble as I try to sit up—the queen, she'll get me, she'll…
"Mairghread, stay still!" Dr. Beckett commands me as John and Dad press me down onto the hard, cold floor of the jumper. "Ye've dislocated your shoulder. Ah need to put it back. Just let me get something…"
It was a dream—Gilleasbachan's nightmare…the nightmare he lived…
"No," I pant, trying to separate dream from reality by shaking my head, "I'll need all my strength. Just do it."
Carson frowns, but nods. "Ronon, John, hold her still."
I close my eyes as he takes hold of my arm… "One, two, three!"
"Ah! Gah…" I gasp as the pain ebbs and he guides my arm to rest on my chest.
"God, Carson, do you have to do that? It was bad enough the first time…" I hear Rodney complain from the front.
"Shut up McKay," John shouts back to the front as he and Dad help get me up to the bench. I hold my sore arm to my chest, the nightmare all too vivid in my mind. John turns to me, his eyes kind and concerned. "Hey, Mary, you okay?"
I gulp in the cool air, trying to slow my racing heart, and nod. "Mm-hmm. Just a nightmare—at least Gilleasbachan doesn't have to deal with them anymore…"
"Why not?" he looks so confused…I could almost laugh…
"My mental powers are the stronger—I take on the nightmares…" I explain quietly.
"But—"
Carson breaks in, a sling in hand. "No more questions. Here," he guides my arm into the sling. "Try to rest—we're almost back tae Atlantis. Ah want an x-ray of tha' shoulder before ye do anathin' else."
I'm too tired to argue. Too much. Too much pain. Too many problems. Too many revelations. Too many things I need to face. Too many decisions.
"Hey," Dad pulls me onto his lap, guiding my head to rest in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, like I was a little girl again. I may be taller than most of the people in Atlantis, but Dad will always be able to hold me on his lap. "Relax."
I sigh, closing my eyes and letting the sound of his blood rushing through his body—the sound of life—fill my senses. The nightmare was just that—a nightmare that I can wake up from and be comforted. I can leave death and rest in the arms of life. It was not real for me.
But it was real for Gilleasbachan. His nightmare was real, something he couldn't wake up from, and there was no one to comfort him then.
Is there any comfort sufficient now?
TBC
A/N--sorry I couldn't give you a happy chapter for Christmas, but...I'll try to update quickly. Happy Hanuka, Kwanza, Christmas, birth of Mirthras, winter solstice, miscellaneous winter holidays everyone!