Logopetria by lavvyan; commentary by inkscribe
Title: Logopetria
Author: lavvyan
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
DVD Commentator: inkscribe
~~~
I believe I read Logopetria the first day or so it came out, and adored it. I love words and their nuances, and I love figuring things out from languages I don’t technically know how to read/speak.
For other reasons I’ll explain in-comment, this story also hits me hard in other ways ...
Logopetria
When John got the call, he thought it was a joke. The classic fanon opener, of course, because anything can happen in the Pegasus Galaxy, right? I love this as an opening line because it leads us to think this might be a happy tale, when it so isn’t. Yes, we know from the original story warnings that it isn’t a happy story, but right from the get-go we’re thrown off-balance by a line that in other fics so often is an invitation to crackfic. An elaborate prank which, granted, wasn't really Rodney's style, especially not with medical conditions, but there was a first time for everything, right? He held on to that hope all the way down to the infirmary, took refuge in it a perfect phrase - ‘took refuge in it’ - that’s precisely what people do when faced with world-altering health crises even as he listened to Keller's nervous attempts at explaining the curiously shaped… things… on the side table. Took Rodney's silence and Ronon's bemusement and Carter's confusion and Teyla's worry I love that they’re all here, for better or for worse - Rodney isn’t stuck in the infirmary alone and afraid and refused to acknowledge them, his mind stuck in a constant replay of, joke, a joke, it's all a joke. Watched Rodney's face grow red and redder until finally the man just snapped and opened his mouth to spit out his frustration and anger.
It wasn't a joke.
John watched in horrified fascination as Rodney literally choked on his words, strangely-shaped objects spilling from his mouth in utter silence except for his coughing and ragged breath. The first thing was something green and slimy-looking that landed on the floor with a wet splat and what sounded like an indistinct mumble. I have read original fiction that followed this line, an original darkfic mirror of a classic faery tale whose name escapes me at the moment because honestly, North America really gets the watered-down versions ... and don’t even get me started on Big Mouse’s attempts to take public domain tales and turn them into their exclusive property on the dubious basis that they made one version into a film. *eyeroll* But I digress ... bottom line? The original-darkfic story was likewise fab, even though it took a different twist entirely. (Aha ... I found the original faery tale after all! Diamonds and Toads ) Something roughly the shape of a sea urchin and apparently made out of wood followed, then a red uneven plastic ball, and a distorted, spiky lump of charred metal. They clattered to the floor in a cacophony of whispers, each uttering its secret over and over until it lay still. The red ball wobbled across the floor until it bounced off Ronon's boot with a faintly murmured, "incompetence," in Rodney's voice Awww! A fantastic word, ‘incompetence’. It shows us not only the depth of Rodney’s anger, but also his contempt for medical sciences. The word also reminds us how often Rodney’s competence and creativity saves the day. Then there was no sound except for the blips and beeps of the infirmary and Rodney's wheezing breath.
"Okay." John bit on his bottom lip and rested his hands on his hips, looking for words as he tore his gaze from the ones that lay on the floor. I know John’s pose here is entirely canon, but I still dislike it. ;-) "We'll figure this out."
Rodney threw him a disgusted look and crossed his arms. 'You better,' that look said.
~~~
They didn't figure it out. ( ! ) The medical department ran every test they could think of - blood tests, x-rays, PET scans, MRIs, EEGs, throat biopsies, though Rodney himself drew the line at a lumbar puncture I absolutely love how the punchy short sentence that starts this paragraph is contrasted by the lengthy list of tests that still fail to diagnose the problem *meep* immediately thereafter with a few choice objects - and Zelenka had everyone searching for the Ancient device that might have caused what Teyla called a very peculiar sickness. To no avail.
"Dr. McKay's language processing occurs in the proper hemisphere of the brain, it's perfectly normal," Keller said. "There's a great deal of anomalous activity in the sylvian fissure closest to the visual cortex, but how the verbal impulses get turned into physical objects…" She shrugged helplessly.
"There have been no energy spikes," Zelenka said as serious as this story is, I adore that like canon, it falls back on seeking ‘energy spikes’ as part of standard analytic procedure , "nothing to indicate that anything was activated. We ran a series of tests on every new artefact that we know has been touched over the last week, but to find the one that did this…" He spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. Zelenka being wordless is a beautiful parallel to the story’s core problem.
"There's almost nothing in the database on this," Carter said, "apart from one passing reference to a sickness the Ancients called 'logopetria' that seems to fit Rodney's symptoms, but as for the cure…" She shook her head.
Huge black thing, gross smelly lump, grass-green nail, wobbly red ball, coin-like thing, Rodney said, and then he pressed his lips together and said nothing at all. The words here are so ... so tactile it makes me ache. In a good way! :-) Each object is something I can see, hear, and touch ... possibly even taste or smell.
'How do you not choke?' John wanted to ask, and, 'Does your throat hurt?' and, 'How are you coping, buddy?' But he didn't. These questions are perfect - they’re what John should ask, but doesn’t. Far too many people stand on ceremony when faced with bizarre diseases and don’t learn what they should learn, what they need to learn. Drives me crazy. *cough cough* Instead, he picked up the odd shapes and materials and added them to his growing collection, trying to find out what Rodney had said. I love that John takes the words someplace private to try to decrypt them! The logopetria sickness seemed to have no prepositions or verbs, copulas despite excessive exposure to grammatical matters, until this story I had never run across the term ’copula’ before. Learning cool new things from fiction is cool or pronouns, otherwise John had no doubt that his collection would be a lot more extensive. He lined up the words in the order they'd fallen from Rodney's lips and tapped them with the little mineralogist's hammer he'd stolen from the geologists not borrowed but stolen, as if he is cracking the code in secret even from his colleagues. "None," "realisation," "life," "incompetence," "destroy," they said in Rodney's whisper-voice, making no sense at all, and John closed his eyes and clenched his fingers around the hammer and vowed again that the linguists could ask until their heads blew off. They wouldn't get this. Even if Carter stopped being on his side, they wouldn't get this. He wouldn't let them, because Rodney's words were his. Mmmmm, yes. Possessing the words of others, particularly those we love, is so crucial. While we have intangibles such as our mother’s love to share with our grandchildren, it’s our mother’s sayings that are concrete, tangible pieces to hand on to the next generation. John might not know that he loves Rodney, but keeping his words as precious secrets tells us clearly that he does He didn't even know why he felt that way, but he'd have time to figure it out. As soon as they'd fixed this, he'd take the time. I suspect many of those who are unafflicted hold on to this belief, that there will be time ‘later’ to do whatever remains undone now. I suspect this is also what feeds into the pain and loss when the time never actually appears.
In the meantime, Rodney was talking less and less. Of course, he'd been trying to stop talking altogether right from the beginning, but he wouldn't have been Rodney if words hadn't kept slipping out. Only now the slipping out part was quite literal. Ewwwww! John had no idea how Rodney knew awww! that he'd... acquired the infirmary words for reasons he hadn't really gotten himself. The point was, somehow Rodney knew, and for some reason, at the end of each day, he'd hand John the collection of words he'd not-said that day; probably for safekeeping from the linguists, John supposed. And John would take them, playing them in different orders to try and figure out what Rodney might have said that day before carefully stowing them away in the cardboard box he'd liberated from the kitchen, like treasures.
Not only did Rodney hand over less and less of his quirky word-objects each day, he also stopped using his datapad - hastily refitted with a voice module - whenever someone talked to him. There were no more hastily scribbled notes, no more frantic typing, no emotionless, mechanical voice reciting invectives to the science team. Rodney's own search for a solution to the whole mess became grim and grimmer until he finally just threw his datapad against the wall, red-faced and panting and blinking furiously as he stared at the electronic mess. This moment is incredibly ... profound ... for me. I’ve been there. I’ve been so ill and on such strong medications that my mind wasn’t capable of forming complex statements or thoughts. I have no idea if people with Alzheimers are self-aware of their changing cognitive abilities, but in my situation, I was very aware of it, and the loss was overwhelming.
John had no idea what to do, so he dragged Rodney off to the shooting range and made him kill paper targets, both of them silent. John was always silent around Rodney these days. He had no idea if Rodney was grateful for that or if he thought it was stupid, if he'd noticed at all. It’s interesting that John is silent around Rodney here out of respect or commiseration, not merely reflecting back what he doesn’t hear. Again, I so often see people respond to a changed life by awkward conversation or shutting down, as though the ill person is somehow different inside now, too. I suppose I can only speak for myself, but honestly, I’d still like to hear the jokes, read (or have read to me) the dirty stories, experience the gentle caresses, etc. Just because the brain-body isn’t working to specification is no reason to behave as though the person inside is now suddenly bereft of what makes them “them”.
When Rodney had emptied several clips and his hands had stopped shaking heh, I wish I’d had that option sometimes *grin*, he lowered the M9 and stared at the last shredded target for several long moments before he let out a sigh. John was still standing behind his shoulder, itching to reach out and hug Rodney but not sure if the contact would be welcome, so he stayed where he was. It had always been easy to reach out to Rodney, to give him a slap on the back or a pat on the arm, but now... exactly! that’s exactly what I mean! John should be reaching out, just like he had in the past. I’m annoyed that John doesn’t reach out now, but the hesitation makes the story that much more realistic.
He'd be the first to admit he was bad at this. As are so many, unfortunately.
Eventually, Rodney took a deep breath and held a hand under his mouth. A single word plopped into his palm, and he wiped it on his shirt before handing it to John. Then he just walked away, tossing the empty gun to the sergeant on duty on his way out.
John looked at the object in his hand. It was of a cheerful blue, slightly fluffy though seemingly made of wood, and reminded him vaguely of a toy horse in its shape. His heart pounding, John tapped his fingernail against it. "Forfeit," it whispered to him. Is it a whisper because he only wants John to hear, or because he can’t bear to admit giving up?
I give up. Awwww!
John closed his eyes and held on. He wanted to yell at someone. At Rodney, maybe, for leaving them behind. He wanted Rodney to yell back. He wanted to take the last two weeks and undo them, somehow, to go back to rolling his eyes at the constant verbal barrage Rodney had so often subjected him to. This rings true: the person who is well and whole is impotent, unable to do anything to change the way things are. Only he wouldn't roll his eyes, not anymore. He'd listen. I promise, he thought inanely, I'd listen, I promise. Except that wouldn't make any difference at all, would it?
Nothing John could do would make any difference.
Two days later, Rodney went back to Earth. John wished him luck. Everything else he wanted to say - 'Stay, don't leave, I want you here,' - stuck in his throat like he were the one who was sick. Rodney shook his hand, his eyes red-rimmed and resigned another perfect word, ‘resigned’. Those who remain well around us use words like ‘brave’, etc., yet we who are unwell don’t really have a choice. You resign yourself to your life as it is or go insane wishing it were different. Rodney’s smart enough to avoid the latter, no matter how painful the former , and if John had known how to hug him, he would have.
He would have done so many things if he'd known how to do them.
~~~
The package arrived on the Apollo a few weeks after Rodney had left. It was a small thing, bearing only his name, but John's hand shook a little as he accepted it, because he would have recognised that handwriting anywhere.
He carried the package to his quarters, absently informing Carter that he'd take the rest of the day off. It was way past lunch already, so it wasn't like he'd be missed if he went off duty a few hours earlier. He put the package on his desk and simply stared at it for a while. Then he opened it.
Inside the package, wrapped in newspaper - and this was so Rodney, being all about content and not about presentation heh heh heh ... honestly, I’d do the same. Though these days all I can find most of the time is toilet paper or spare napkins from a fast-food restaurant. I wouldn’t even think about the secondary message I might be giving by using either of them to wrap my words. *facepalm* - was a perfectly round stone, about the size of those tinkling Chinese balls you were supposed to roll in your hand. It felt cool and smooth in John's palm when he picked it up, like polished marble. At first glance, it merely looked black, but there was a dark hazel but of course it would be hazel pattern running through it, making it change its colour with every movement of the ball, like a tiger's-eye. It was easily one of the most beautiful things John had ever seen.
Nervous and intrigued - because it was a word, wasn't it? Rodney had sent him a word - John rummaged through the drawers, finally pulling out the small mineralogist's hammer he hadn't touched since Rodney had left. The cardboard box was collecting dust under his bed, and he'd stopped asking Zelenka and Carter and Keller if they'd found anything yet. But now Rodney had sent him a word, and it had to be an important one. Rodney didn't just send things because they were pretty. I love the anticipation that builds here, continued in the next statement by John’s need for a ‘fortifying breath’ before tapping the word.
John took a fortifying breath, picked up the little mineralogist's hammer and tapped it lightly against the marble.
And then he did it again and closed his eyes, gripping the hammer so hard that his fingers hurt as he listened to the faint word that was echoing through the room.
"John."
I love that Rodney might have spent much time thinking about how to form his words with clarity. Throughout his ordeal, the words we’ve seen encompass things both concrete and conceptual, yet he has managed to produce a word that says not only the arbitrary ‘John’ but incorporates some of the concrete elements of John-ness: hazel eyes, black clothes. Sturdy and playful like a spherical marble, cool and smooth on the exterior but with glimpses of something hidden within.
We never see whether Rodney recovers, and we don’t need to.
For me, the story suggests that Rodney doesn’t want to remain isolated from at least one person, and the one person he wants to remain connected to is John. I’d like to think that John responds to this, that he leaves Atlantis to reunite with Rodney, and that he’s there (quiet or otherwise) for Rodney.
In my experience (both in my own situation and that of acquaintances), this type of connection is one I’ve seen fail too often. A person coping with a lengthy illness is often isolated by virtue of their illness, yet the people around them begin to resent being close to the ill person or are not able to cope with seeing their loved one’s frailty and mortality up-close-and-in-person over and over again.
Rodney’s initial choice to isolate himself is painful and I love that lavvyan had him do so - though we see the story through John’s eyes, we are watching Rodney establish control over something that is largely uncontrollable. I also love that John shows outward respect for Rodney’s choice, even though he has deep inner regret, pain, and loss.
~~~
Post-commentary commentator notes: I wrote 99.99 per cent of this commentary the same day I signed up for this year’s event, but as the commentary included reference to a number of personally overwhelming events, I decided to allow the piece to sit a few days before publishing.
I feel conflicted over this commentary, because while I adore the story for all the reasons outlined above, the very fact that the specific reasons this story resonates so strongly for me are only outlined suggests to me that for other readers, my comments may be far too vague to be of interest or value. Indeed, at this moment? I’m feeling as though this commentary is too wanky to post ... yet I shall face my own fears and post it regardless.
(A huge thank you to general_jinjur for the small extension so I could both sleep and proofread before posting! AFAIK, I've killed most of the excessive exclamation points that made it into my original draft.)
Thank you to lavvyan for granting permission to work with her stories.
Author: lavvyan
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
DVD Commentator: inkscribe
~~~
I believe I read Logopetria the first day or so it came out, and adored it. I love words and their nuances, and I love figuring things out from languages I don’t technically know how to read/speak.
For other reasons I’ll explain in-comment, this story also hits me hard in other ways ...
Logopetria
When John got the call, he thought it was a joke. The classic fanon opener, of course, because anything can happen in the Pegasus Galaxy, right? I love this as an opening line because it leads us to think this might be a happy tale, when it so isn’t. Yes, we know from the original story warnings that it isn’t a happy story, but right from the get-go we’re thrown off-balance by a line that in other fics so often is an invitation to crackfic. An elaborate prank which, granted, wasn't really Rodney's style, especially not with medical conditions, but there was a first time for everything, right? He held on to that hope all the way down to the infirmary, took refuge in it a perfect phrase - ‘took refuge in it’ - that’s precisely what people do when faced with world-altering health crises even as he listened to Keller's nervous attempts at explaining the curiously shaped… things… on the side table. Took Rodney's silence and Ronon's bemusement and Carter's confusion and Teyla's worry I love that they’re all here, for better or for worse - Rodney isn’t stuck in the infirmary alone and afraid and refused to acknowledge them, his mind stuck in a constant replay of, joke, a joke, it's all a joke. Watched Rodney's face grow red and redder until finally the man just snapped and opened his mouth to spit out his frustration and anger.
It wasn't a joke.
John watched in horrified fascination as Rodney literally choked on his words, strangely-shaped objects spilling from his mouth in utter silence except for his coughing and ragged breath. The first thing was something green and slimy-looking that landed on the floor with a wet splat and what sounded like an indistinct mumble. I have read original fiction that followed this line, an original darkfic mirror of a classic faery tale whose name escapes me at the moment because honestly, North America really gets the watered-down versions ... and don’t even get me started on Big Mouse’s attempts to take public domain tales and turn them into their exclusive property on the dubious basis that they made one version into a film. *eyeroll* But I digress ... bottom line? The original-darkfic story was likewise fab, even though it took a different twist entirely. (Aha ... I found the original faery tale after all! Diamonds and Toads ) Something roughly the shape of a sea urchin and apparently made out of wood followed, then a red uneven plastic ball, and a distorted, spiky lump of charred metal. They clattered to the floor in a cacophony of whispers, each uttering its secret over and over until it lay still. The red ball wobbled across the floor until it bounced off Ronon's boot with a faintly murmured, "incompetence," in Rodney's voice Awww! A fantastic word, ‘incompetence’. It shows us not only the depth of Rodney’s anger, but also his contempt for medical sciences. The word also reminds us how often Rodney’s competence and creativity saves the day. Then there was no sound except for the blips and beeps of the infirmary and Rodney's wheezing breath.
"Okay." John bit on his bottom lip and rested his hands on his hips, looking for words as he tore his gaze from the ones that lay on the floor. I know John’s pose here is entirely canon, but I still dislike it. ;-) "We'll figure this out."
Rodney threw him a disgusted look and crossed his arms. 'You better,' that look said.
~~~
They didn't figure it out. ( ! ) The medical department ran every test they could think of - blood tests, x-rays, PET scans, MRIs, EEGs, throat biopsies, though Rodney himself drew the line at a lumbar puncture I absolutely love how the punchy short sentence that starts this paragraph is contrasted by the lengthy list of tests that still fail to diagnose the problem *meep* immediately thereafter with a few choice objects - and Zelenka had everyone searching for the Ancient device that might have caused what Teyla called a very peculiar sickness. To no avail.
"Dr. McKay's language processing occurs in the proper hemisphere of the brain, it's perfectly normal," Keller said. "There's a great deal of anomalous activity in the sylvian fissure closest to the visual cortex, but how the verbal impulses get turned into physical objects…" She shrugged helplessly.
"There have been no energy spikes," Zelenka said as serious as this story is, I adore that like canon, it falls back on seeking ‘energy spikes’ as part of standard analytic procedure , "nothing to indicate that anything was activated. We ran a series of tests on every new artefact that we know has been touched over the last week, but to find the one that did this…" He spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. Zelenka being wordless is a beautiful parallel to the story’s core problem.
"There's almost nothing in the database on this," Carter said, "apart from one passing reference to a sickness the Ancients called 'logopetria' that seems to fit Rodney's symptoms, but as for the cure…" She shook her head.
Huge black thing, gross smelly lump, grass-green nail, wobbly red ball, coin-like thing, Rodney said, and then he pressed his lips together and said nothing at all. The words here are so ... so tactile it makes me ache. In a good way! :-) Each object is something I can see, hear, and touch ... possibly even taste or smell.
'How do you not choke?' John wanted to ask, and, 'Does your throat hurt?' and, 'How are you coping, buddy?' But he didn't. These questions are perfect - they’re what John should ask, but doesn’t. Far too many people stand on ceremony when faced with bizarre diseases and don’t learn what they should learn, what they need to learn. Drives me crazy. *cough cough* Instead, he picked up the odd shapes and materials and added them to his growing collection, trying to find out what Rodney had said. I love that John takes the words someplace private to try to decrypt them! The logopetria sickness seemed to have no prepositions or verbs, copulas despite excessive exposure to grammatical matters, until this story I had never run across the term ’copula’ before. Learning cool new things from fiction is cool or pronouns, otherwise John had no doubt that his collection would be a lot more extensive. He lined up the words in the order they'd fallen from Rodney's lips and tapped them with the little mineralogist's hammer he'd stolen from the geologists not borrowed but stolen, as if he is cracking the code in secret even from his colleagues. "None," "realisation," "life," "incompetence," "destroy," they said in Rodney's whisper-voice, making no sense at all, and John closed his eyes and clenched his fingers around the hammer and vowed again that the linguists could ask until their heads blew off. They wouldn't get this. Even if Carter stopped being on his side, they wouldn't get this. He wouldn't let them, because Rodney's words were his. Mmmmm, yes. Possessing the words of others, particularly those we love, is so crucial. While we have intangibles such as our mother’s love to share with our grandchildren, it’s our mother’s sayings that are concrete, tangible pieces to hand on to the next generation. John might not know that he loves Rodney, but keeping his words as precious secrets tells us clearly that he does He didn't even know why he felt that way, but he'd have time to figure it out. As soon as they'd fixed this, he'd take the time. I suspect many of those who are unafflicted hold on to this belief, that there will be time ‘later’ to do whatever remains undone now. I suspect this is also what feeds into the pain and loss when the time never actually appears.
In the meantime, Rodney was talking less and less. Of course, he'd been trying to stop talking altogether right from the beginning, but he wouldn't have been Rodney if words hadn't kept slipping out. Only now the slipping out part was quite literal. Ewwwww! John had no idea how Rodney knew awww! that he'd... acquired the infirmary words for reasons he hadn't really gotten himself. The point was, somehow Rodney knew, and for some reason, at the end of each day, he'd hand John the collection of words he'd not-said that day; probably for safekeeping from the linguists, John supposed. And John would take them, playing them in different orders to try and figure out what Rodney might have said that day before carefully stowing them away in the cardboard box he'd liberated from the kitchen, like treasures.
Not only did Rodney hand over less and less of his quirky word-objects each day, he also stopped using his datapad - hastily refitted with a voice module - whenever someone talked to him. There were no more hastily scribbled notes, no more frantic typing, no emotionless, mechanical voice reciting invectives to the science team. Rodney's own search for a solution to the whole mess became grim and grimmer until he finally just threw his datapad against the wall, red-faced and panting and blinking furiously as he stared at the electronic mess. This moment is incredibly ... profound ... for me. I’ve been there. I’ve been so ill and on such strong medications that my mind wasn’t capable of forming complex statements or thoughts. I have no idea if people with Alzheimers are self-aware of their changing cognitive abilities, but in my situation, I was very aware of it, and the loss was overwhelming.
John had no idea what to do, so he dragged Rodney off to the shooting range and made him kill paper targets, both of them silent. John was always silent around Rodney these days. He had no idea if Rodney was grateful for that or if he thought it was stupid, if he'd noticed at all. It’s interesting that John is silent around Rodney here out of respect or commiseration, not merely reflecting back what he doesn’t hear. Again, I so often see people respond to a changed life by awkward conversation or shutting down, as though the ill person is somehow different inside now, too. I suppose I can only speak for myself, but honestly, I’d still like to hear the jokes, read (or have read to me) the dirty stories, experience the gentle caresses, etc. Just because the brain-body isn’t working to specification is no reason to behave as though the person inside is now suddenly bereft of what makes them “them”.
When Rodney had emptied several clips and his hands had stopped shaking heh, I wish I’d had that option sometimes *grin*, he lowered the M9 and stared at the last shredded target for several long moments before he let out a sigh. John was still standing behind his shoulder, itching to reach out and hug Rodney but not sure if the contact would be welcome, so he stayed where he was. It had always been easy to reach out to Rodney, to give him a slap on the back or a pat on the arm, but now... exactly! that’s exactly what I mean! John should be reaching out, just like he had in the past. I’m annoyed that John doesn’t reach out now, but the hesitation makes the story that much more realistic.
He'd be the first to admit he was bad at this. As are so many, unfortunately.
Eventually, Rodney took a deep breath and held a hand under his mouth. A single word plopped into his palm, and he wiped it on his shirt before handing it to John. Then he just walked away, tossing the empty gun to the sergeant on duty on his way out.
John looked at the object in his hand. It was of a cheerful blue, slightly fluffy though seemingly made of wood, and reminded him vaguely of a toy horse in its shape. His heart pounding, John tapped his fingernail against it. "Forfeit," it whispered to him. Is it a whisper because he only wants John to hear, or because he can’t bear to admit giving up?
I give up. Awwww!
John closed his eyes and held on. He wanted to yell at someone. At Rodney, maybe, for leaving them behind. He wanted Rodney to yell back. He wanted to take the last two weeks and undo them, somehow, to go back to rolling his eyes at the constant verbal barrage Rodney had so often subjected him to. This rings true: the person who is well and whole is impotent, unable to do anything to change the way things are. Only he wouldn't roll his eyes, not anymore. He'd listen. I promise, he thought inanely, I'd listen, I promise. Except that wouldn't make any difference at all, would it?
Nothing John could do would make any difference.
Two days later, Rodney went back to Earth. John wished him luck. Everything else he wanted to say - 'Stay, don't leave, I want you here,' - stuck in his throat like he were the one who was sick. Rodney shook his hand, his eyes red-rimmed and resigned another perfect word, ‘resigned’. Those who remain well around us use words like ‘brave’, etc., yet we who are unwell don’t really have a choice. You resign yourself to your life as it is or go insane wishing it were different. Rodney’s smart enough to avoid the latter, no matter how painful the former , and if John had known how to hug him, he would have.
He would have done so many things if he'd known how to do them.
~~~
The package arrived on the Apollo a few weeks after Rodney had left. It was a small thing, bearing only his name, but John's hand shook a little as he accepted it, because he would have recognised that handwriting anywhere.
He carried the package to his quarters, absently informing Carter that he'd take the rest of the day off. It was way past lunch already, so it wasn't like he'd be missed if he went off duty a few hours earlier. He put the package on his desk and simply stared at it for a while. Then he opened it.
Inside the package, wrapped in newspaper - and this was so Rodney, being all about content and not about presentation heh heh heh ... honestly, I’d do the same. Though these days all I can find most of the time is toilet paper or spare napkins from a fast-food restaurant. I wouldn’t even think about the secondary message I might be giving by using either of them to wrap my words. *facepalm* - was a perfectly round stone, about the size of those tinkling Chinese balls you were supposed to roll in your hand. It felt cool and smooth in John's palm when he picked it up, like polished marble. At first glance, it merely looked black, but there was a dark hazel but of course it would be hazel pattern running through it, making it change its colour with every movement of the ball, like a tiger's-eye. It was easily one of the most beautiful things John had ever seen.
Nervous and intrigued - because it was a word, wasn't it? Rodney had sent him a word - John rummaged through the drawers, finally pulling out the small mineralogist's hammer he hadn't touched since Rodney had left. The cardboard box was collecting dust under his bed, and he'd stopped asking Zelenka and Carter and Keller if they'd found anything yet. But now Rodney had sent him a word, and it had to be an important one. Rodney didn't just send things because they were pretty. I love the anticipation that builds here, continued in the next statement by John’s need for a ‘fortifying breath’ before tapping the word.
John took a fortifying breath, picked up the little mineralogist's hammer and tapped it lightly against the marble.
And then he did it again and closed his eyes, gripping the hammer so hard that his fingers hurt as he listened to the faint word that was echoing through the room.
"John."
I love that Rodney might have spent much time thinking about how to form his words with clarity. Throughout his ordeal, the words we’ve seen encompass things both concrete and conceptual, yet he has managed to produce a word that says not only the arbitrary ‘John’ but incorporates some of the concrete elements of John-ness: hazel eyes, black clothes. Sturdy and playful like a spherical marble, cool and smooth on the exterior but with glimpses of something hidden within.
We never see whether Rodney recovers, and we don’t need to.
For me, the story suggests that Rodney doesn’t want to remain isolated from at least one person, and the one person he wants to remain connected to is John. I’d like to think that John responds to this, that he leaves Atlantis to reunite with Rodney, and that he’s there (quiet or otherwise) for Rodney.
In my experience (both in my own situation and that of acquaintances), this type of connection is one I’ve seen fail too often. A person coping with a lengthy illness is often isolated by virtue of their illness, yet the people around them begin to resent being close to the ill person or are not able to cope with seeing their loved one’s frailty and mortality up-close-and-in-person over and over again.
Rodney’s initial choice to isolate himself is painful and I love that lavvyan had him do so - though we see the story through John’s eyes, we are watching Rodney establish control over something that is largely uncontrollable. I also love that John shows outward respect for Rodney’s choice, even though he has deep inner regret, pain, and loss.
~~~
Post-commentary commentator notes: I wrote 99.99 per cent of this commentary the same day I signed up for this year’s event, but as the commentary included reference to a number of personally overwhelming events, I decided to allow the piece to sit a few days before publishing.
I feel conflicted over this commentary, because while I adore the story for all the reasons outlined above, the very fact that the specific reasons this story resonates so strongly for me are only outlined suggests to me that for other readers, my comments may be far too vague to be of interest or value. Indeed, at this moment? I’m feeling as though this commentary is too wanky to post ... yet I shall face my own fears and post it regardless.
(A huge thank you to general_jinjur for the small extension so I could both sleep and proofread before posting! AFAIK, I've killed most of the excessive exclamation points that made it into my original draft.)
Thank you to lavvyan for granting permission to work with her stories.