Fic: Somewhere to Call Home (1/6, SGA)
Sep. 17th, 2008 09:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thefroggTitle: Somewhere to Call Home
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thefrogg
Beta:fluffnutter
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Author's Note: This whacked me over the head while I was trying to finish What They Seem To Be.
"I am a Runner," she says, weary and warning. The people must know the danger following her. "I cannot stay, the Wraith are coming for me."
"The Wraith are not here yet," the townspeople say, and lead her to the inn. They make her sit, put food in front of her, thick stew and warm bread.
She is hungry, and cannot afford to refuse their generosity; by the time she sops up the last of the gravy with a crust of bread, a heavy canvas duffel bag sits on the table next to her, packed with supplies. "I cannot pay for this--"
"No, ma'am," says the mayor's son. His sister is stuffing a belt pouch with trail rations, spiced jerky and granola sticks and dried fruit. "There are people who can help you. I know you can't stay, but you could leave a message." He holds out a quill and parchment. "Can you write?"
"I...yes, I can write." She doesn't know why, or how, or when she learned, but she knows she can.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
The planets blur together, gate addresses spilling through her mind. There is nothing from Before, just the great pain and awakening with the need to survive, to search.
What she searches for remains a mystery.
~~~
She tries to make the rations last, feeding herself from foraged greens and berries and eggs scavenged from birds' nests. Afraid to endanger others, she sticks to uninhabited worlds.
Foraging becomes impossible after she sprains her ankle, as if the rainstorm didn't make her miserable enough. It's all she can do just to stay ahead of the Wraith, hobbling along with the help of a tree branch large enough to be unwieldy.
~~~
Hunger gnaws at her gut by the time she can walk easily, and she heads for a planet she knows should be in late summer, forage easy to find in the woods near the gate.
She finds three men there, dusty and less than civilized. "I am a Runner," she says, meeting their eyes.
The rest of her warning remains unsaid at their hungry looks and leering grins.
There are no lines when it comes to survival, she remembers from somewhere, and squares her shoulders.
It is over quickly, and she leaves them in sated slumber to ransack their supplies, taking the promised provisions, and more besides: two knives, scratched but serviceable; an energy pistol, the smallest of the three and still a bit large for her hands; two waterskins and a belt to carry them on.
She stays too long, dawn pink on the horizon before the gate opens. She can come back for the rest.
~~~
With the Wraith occupied if only momentarily, she goes back to that first planet, unable to help herself. She has to know.
The town still stands, and the people welcome her again.
The Wraith did not come.
She can't help but think they know what she's done, and cannot regret it, either. She can only hope she never remembers Before, because she doesn't think that woman would be able to live with her.
"We sent your message," the mayor's son says. "They are looking for you."
"Thank you. I..." She stops, stricken, unable to say anything else.
In the end, she leaves another note.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
She can't bring herself to write the rest, but she remembers it for later.
I bargained in desperation, and left them for the Wraith.
~~~
Populated planets are no longer avoided now, but she limits them to visits of a few hours.
"I am a Runner," she says on her arrival, giving them the choice. "The Wraith will come for me, I cannot stay."
The people of Erdatha trade her worn and dirty clothing for clean, and give her a leather jacket that smells of home.
On Parak Ir, they gift her a set of bantos rods, rubbed smooth and gleaming orange and yellow. They rest in a sheath against her back.
The Cherchen teach her how to set a snare, the basics of sling and slingshot. She goes through the gate wearing a bandolier full of throwing spikes.
She leaves behind notes written in flowing script, the ink blotchy on parchment.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
There's no way to tell who the message is for, or tell them how to find her.
~~~
She still spends most of her time on uninhabited planets, setting up targets and practicing until her arms ache, her pebbles and baked clay pellets scattered in the dirt and leaves. Tree trunks run sticky with sap, pierced over and over with her spikes until her aim is instinctive; she spares no regrets for the coming death of giants.
Six days of practice on as many planets force her to the market on Delgesh, where she trades the pistol for one with a smaller grip.
~~~
Her curves melt away with the days, leaving her whipcord and bone, her body as hard as the look in her eyes. It's enough to catch the eye of a mercenary at the inn on Malkon.
"I am a Runner," she tells him. "I cannot stay."
"I know," he replies, steady and soothing. "I can help you survive. Teach you things you need to know."
She eyes the tattoo on his neck, both familiar and somehow not. "I cannot stay," she says again.
"I know. I'm offering to go with you, if you'll let me."
Instinct and intellect war, making her glance from his blue eyes to the innkeeper and back.
He nods, shifting out of her way. "Go ahead, ask. There are other monsters out there besides the Wraith."
The offer is enough to convince her, but not enough to make her forget the note for the innkeeper.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
She thought her life was intense before.
He pushes intense to insane, moving them three, four, five planets daily, standing watch while she snatches a few hours' sleep. He tests her marksmanship, her skills with sling and spike, drills her in bantos, teaches her to hunt and track, to fight with her hands and feet and mind.
The constant moving kills her time-sense, leaving day and night to bleed together; she sleeps when she has to and eats when hunger becomes a handicap.
He never touches her outside of training.
~~~
By the time the bright orange of autumn ignites the green-gold of Tersal's forest, she's the one pushing their training, her body craving his touch.
~~~
She grows restless on a planet she has no name for, and her stomach will not tolerate food.
He moves them again, to a gate address she does not recognize, and sets up camp beside a stream that's almost a river. Weapons line up on a boulder, gun, sword, knives, rods, sling; his shirt and boots follow.
Confused, she does the same, her own collection smaller both in number and in size.
She understands when the cramping hits, when his hands strip her bare with infinite tenderness and carry her into the water.
~~~
"It wasn't rape," she says in the darkness. The water is cool on her skin, the man holding her hot as a brand. The death she carried unknowingly sweeps away with the current, leaving only an odd, empty ache.
He does not answer, only dribbles water over her neck and shoulders with one hand.
~~~
She sleeps heavily, comforted by his presence. Come morning, she wakes, ravenous, to the scent of tea and roasting meat and frying eggs.
He watches her strip the bird to bones with an expression of amused satisfaction.
"It wasn't rape," she says again, staring into the flames.
"Did you have a choice?" he asks, effortlessly nonjudgemental. It makes her envious.
She can only thin her lips and shake her head.
"Then don't call it anything else."
She doesn't want to agree, but it makes the guilt easier to bear. "I didn't know," she whispers. I didn't know I was pregnant, she means, and can't say. She's not sure she'll ever be able to say them.
"I know. I did." He watches her as her breath catches, then tosses the bones of his own breakfast into the fire.
~~~
He makes her rest, using the time to sharpen his blades, her spikes, roll more pellets for their slings. Lunch is fish baked in mud and wild greens and three kinds of fruit, sweet and tart and tangy.
She finishes every scrap he puts in front of her, and licks her fingers clean. She rinses her hands with the last of her water, then buries herself under his jacket again, hiding from the sun; offering to help clean up would be an insult.
~~~
It's the first time she's seen two sunsets on the same planet, and it makes her uneasy and somehow sad. "Is that why you won't touch me?" she asks, poking at the fire with a stick. Shame hunches her shoulders.
"Look at me," he says. He sighs when she refuses, and moves to kneel beside her. One finger touches her chin, lifting her head. "Little bird, where I come from, the only crime worse than rape is treason."
She licks her lips and stares; his face is half lost in shadow, half crimson in the firelight. The wind moves his chestnut hair as if it is a fire itself. And she is suddenly, inexplicably aware of how much power he holds, how little her new-won skills would matter if he thought to force her. That knowledge doesn't make her feel any less safe.
"Yes, that's why I don't touch you, but not for the reason you think." He reaches up with his free hand, careful as with a downy chick, and cups the side of her face. "You are still learning. Still see yourself as a victim. I will not touch you until you can defend yourself, little bird."
She swallows hard, pressing her face against his hand. "What if I don't want to defend myself against you?"
His lips twitch upwards in a smile. "Then you have a little more incentive to learn, don't you?"
She stifles a groan as something inside clenches with want.
~~~
In the morning, she picks the destination. He follows, eyes wary, hand on his gun.
The camp remains, scattered by animals and a pathetic attempt to fight.
She feels only a vague sense of satisfaction at the sight of mummified corpses.
He leaves her side without a word, and goes to gather what's left of the supplies. Only the energy pistols are deemed worth taking, tucked in his belt. And the leather bag of stones, red and green and blue.
He pours a small fortune in raw gems into her cupped hands. "Stolen, probably."
"Yes." She stares at them for a moment before tipping them back into their bag, then at the corpses one last time. "I stayed too long."
"Good."
~~~
They spend an afternoon at the Delgesh market trading half the gems for other things: spices, dyes, medicines, currency from half a dozen more civilized worlds.
She leaves a message there, with one of the local barkeeps.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
They find Litaven ankle-deep in snow, and go back through the gate to Wetak Nal.
"I am a Runner," she says, her partner silent. "I cannot stay, the Wraith will come for me."
They nod acceptance of the warning, and refuse to turn her away.
She trades the two scratched knives for a blanket, thick and warm, and packets of scarlet dye for winter clothes so blue they make her look fragile.
Bargaining done, she's ushered off to the baths by the women, fussed over and pampered. Her hair is washed and trimmed, ragged ends evened out and hidden in a simple braid that just brushes her shoulders. She dresses in her new clothes, high-necked shirt and trousers, leather boots lined in fur; she's offered a vial of scented oil, and touches it to wrist and neck.
It's the first time she's felt truly clean in ages, and she makes sure to tell them so, thanking them for the hospitality as they share a meal.
They let her keep the oil.
She leaves a note in its stead.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
Next Chapter
Author:
thefrogg Beta:
fluffnutter Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Author's Note: This whacked me over the head while I was trying to finish What They Seem To Be.
"I am a Runner," she says, weary and warning. The people must know the danger following her. "I cannot stay, the Wraith are coming for me."
"The Wraith are not here yet," the townspeople say, and lead her to the inn. They make her sit, put food in front of her, thick stew and warm bread.
She is hungry, and cannot afford to refuse their generosity; by the time she sops up the last of the gravy with a crust of bread, a heavy canvas duffel bag sits on the table next to her, packed with supplies. "I cannot pay for this--"
"No, ma'am," says the mayor's son. His sister is stuffing a belt pouch with trail rations, spiced jerky and granola sticks and dried fruit. "There are people who can help you. I know you can't stay, but you could leave a message." He holds out a quill and parchment. "Can you write?"
"I...yes, I can write." She doesn't know why, or how, or when she learned, but she knows she can.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
The planets blur together, gate addresses spilling through her mind. There is nothing from Before, just the great pain and awakening with the need to survive, to search.
What she searches for remains a mystery.
~~~
She tries to make the rations last, feeding herself from foraged greens and berries and eggs scavenged from birds' nests. Afraid to endanger others, she sticks to uninhabited worlds.
Foraging becomes impossible after she sprains her ankle, as if the rainstorm didn't make her miserable enough. It's all she can do just to stay ahead of the Wraith, hobbling along with the help of a tree branch large enough to be unwieldy.
~~~
Hunger gnaws at her gut by the time she can walk easily, and she heads for a planet she knows should be in late summer, forage easy to find in the woods near the gate.
She finds three men there, dusty and less than civilized. "I am a Runner," she says, meeting their eyes.
The rest of her warning remains unsaid at their hungry looks and leering grins.
There are no lines when it comes to survival, she remembers from somewhere, and squares her shoulders.
It is over quickly, and she leaves them in sated slumber to ransack their supplies, taking the promised provisions, and more besides: two knives, scratched but serviceable; an energy pistol, the smallest of the three and still a bit large for her hands; two waterskins and a belt to carry them on.
She stays too long, dawn pink on the horizon before the gate opens. She can come back for the rest.
~~~
With the Wraith occupied if only momentarily, she goes back to that first planet, unable to help herself. She has to know.
The town still stands, and the people welcome her again.
The Wraith did not come.
She can't help but think they know what she's done, and cannot regret it, either. She can only hope she never remembers Before, because she doesn't think that woman would be able to live with her.
"We sent your message," the mayor's son says. "They are looking for you."
"Thank you. I..." She stops, stricken, unable to say anything else.
In the end, she leaves another note.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
She can't bring herself to write the rest, but she remembers it for later.
I bargained in desperation, and left them for the Wraith.
~~~
Populated planets are no longer avoided now, but she limits them to visits of a few hours.
"I am a Runner," she says on her arrival, giving them the choice. "The Wraith will come for me, I cannot stay."
The people of Erdatha trade her worn and dirty clothing for clean, and give her a leather jacket that smells of home.
On Parak Ir, they gift her a set of bantos rods, rubbed smooth and gleaming orange and yellow. They rest in a sheath against her back.
The Cherchen teach her how to set a snare, the basics of sling and slingshot. She goes through the gate wearing a bandolier full of throwing spikes.
She leaves behind notes written in flowing script, the ink blotchy on parchment.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
There's no way to tell who the message is for, or tell them how to find her.
~~~
She still spends most of her time on uninhabited planets, setting up targets and practicing until her arms ache, her pebbles and baked clay pellets scattered in the dirt and leaves. Tree trunks run sticky with sap, pierced over and over with her spikes until her aim is instinctive; she spares no regrets for the coming death of giants.
Six days of practice on as many planets force her to the market on Delgesh, where she trades the pistol for one with a smaller grip.
~~~
Her curves melt away with the days, leaving her whipcord and bone, her body as hard as the look in her eyes. It's enough to catch the eye of a mercenary at the inn on Malkon.
"I am a Runner," she tells him. "I cannot stay."
"I know," he replies, steady and soothing. "I can help you survive. Teach you things you need to know."
She eyes the tattoo on his neck, both familiar and somehow not. "I cannot stay," she says again.
"I know. I'm offering to go with you, if you'll let me."
Instinct and intellect war, making her glance from his blue eyes to the innkeeper and back.
He nods, shifting out of her way. "Go ahead, ask. There are other monsters out there besides the Wraith."
The offer is enough to convince her, but not enough to make her forget the note for the innkeeper.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
She thought her life was intense before.
He pushes intense to insane, moving them three, four, five planets daily, standing watch while she snatches a few hours' sleep. He tests her marksmanship, her skills with sling and spike, drills her in bantos, teaches her to hunt and track, to fight with her hands and feet and mind.
The constant moving kills her time-sense, leaving day and night to bleed together; she sleeps when she has to and eats when hunger becomes a handicap.
He never touches her outside of training.
~~~
By the time the bright orange of autumn ignites the green-gold of Tersal's forest, she's the one pushing their training, her body craving his touch.
~~~
She grows restless on a planet she has no name for, and her stomach will not tolerate food.
He moves them again, to a gate address she does not recognize, and sets up camp beside a stream that's almost a river. Weapons line up on a boulder, gun, sword, knives, rods, sling; his shirt and boots follow.
Confused, she does the same, her own collection smaller both in number and in size.
She understands when the cramping hits, when his hands strip her bare with infinite tenderness and carry her into the water.
~~~
"It wasn't rape," she says in the darkness. The water is cool on her skin, the man holding her hot as a brand. The death she carried unknowingly sweeps away with the current, leaving only an odd, empty ache.
He does not answer, only dribbles water over her neck and shoulders with one hand.
~~~
She sleeps heavily, comforted by his presence. Come morning, she wakes, ravenous, to the scent of tea and roasting meat and frying eggs.
He watches her strip the bird to bones with an expression of amused satisfaction.
"It wasn't rape," she says again, staring into the flames.
"Did you have a choice?" he asks, effortlessly nonjudgemental. It makes her envious.
She can only thin her lips and shake her head.
"Then don't call it anything else."
She doesn't want to agree, but it makes the guilt easier to bear. "I didn't know," she whispers. I didn't know I was pregnant, she means, and can't say. She's not sure she'll ever be able to say them.
"I know. I did." He watches her as her breath catches, then tosses the bones of his own breakfast into the fire.
~~~
He makes her rest, using the time to sharpen his blades, her spikes, roll more pellets for their slings. Lunch is fish baked in mud and wild greens and three kinds of fruit, sweet and tart and tangy.
She finishes every scrap he puts in front of her, and licks her fingers clean. She rinses her hands with the last of her water, then buries herself under his jacket again, hiding from the sun; offering to help clean up would be an insult.
~~~
It's the first time she's seen two sunsets on the same planet, and it makes her uneasy and somehow sad. "Is that why you won't touch me?" she asks, poking at the fire with a stick. Shame hunches her shoulders.
"Look at me," he says. He sighs when she refuses, and moves to kneel beside her. One finger touches her chin, lifting her head. "Little bird, where I come from, the only crime worse than rape is treason."
She licks her lips and stares; his face is half lost in shadow, half crimson in the firelight. The wind moves his chestnut hair as if it is a fire itself. And she is suddenly, inexplicably aware of how much power he holds, how little her new-won skills would matter if he thought to force her. That knowledge doesn't make her feel any less safe.
"Yes, that's why I don't touch you, but not for the reason you think." He reaches up with his free hand, careful as with a downy chick, and cups the side of her face. "You are still learning. Still see yourself as a victim. I will not touch you until you can defend yourself, little bird."
She swallows hard, pressing her face against his hand. "What if I don't want to defend myself against you?"
His lips twitch upwards in a smile. "Then you have a little more incentive to learn, don't you?"
She stifles a groan as something inside clenches with want.
~~~
In the morning, she picks the destination. He follows, eyes wary, hand on his gun.
The camp remains, scattered by animals and a pathetic attempt to fight.
She feels only a vague sense of satisfaction at the sight of mummified corpses.
He leaves her side without a word, and goes to gather what's left of the supplies. Only the energy pistols are deemed worth taking, tucked in his belt. And the leather bag of stones, red and green and blue.
He pours a small fortune in raw gems into her cupped hands. "Stolen, probably."
"Yes." She stares at them for a moment before tipping them back into their bag, then at the corpses one last time. "I stayed too long."
"Good."
~~~
They spend an afternoon at the Delgesh market trading half the gems for other things: spices, dyes, medicines, currency from half a dozen more civilized worlds.
She leaves a message there, with one of the local barkeeps.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
They find Litaven ankle-deep in snow, and go back through the gate to Wetak Nal.
"I am a Runner," she says, her partner silent. "I cannot stay, the Wraith will come for me."
They nod acceptance of the warning, and refuse to turn her away.
She trades the two scratched knives for a blanket, thick and warm, and packets of scarlet dye for winter clothes so blue they make her look fragile.
Bargaining done, she's ushered off to the baths by the women, fussed over and pampered. Her hair is washed and trimmed, ragged ends evened out and hidden in a simple braid that just brushes her shoulders. She dresses in her new clothes, high-necked shirt and trousers, leather boots lined in fur; she's offered a vial of scented oil, and touches it to wrist and neck.
It's the first time she's felt truly clean in ages, and she makes sure to tell them so, thanking them for the hospitality as they share a meal.
They let her keep the oil.
She leaves a note in its stead.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
Next Chapter
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-17 03:07 pm (UTC)I really wish I could be more coherent in my praise of your story telling ability.
I really enjoyed this.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-21 01:16 am (UTC)