Three secrets: Hiraeth; Afraid; Mirror, by Temaris
No pairings. Gen.
Spoilers per individual story. Too short to be stories, too long for drabbles.
1. Hiraeth*
secret postcard
In the morning I could smell the peat fires, almost smokeless, but warm, rich. Breakfast smells came after when I was very little; until the day I had to make them for myself. Water for tea; grain and milk boiled together; sweetsap from the mallen tree, and in season, petani nuts or ferberries, small and sweet.
The birds called from the forest until the sounds of the camp and the children scattered them.
I knew where everyone was; I knew who was happy and who was discontent. I could accidentally talk to anyone, just by standing near their tent. The click and snap of sticks led me to the place of the warriors; the humming and singing to the weaving and sewing, men and women together holding the beat in the clack and thrust of the looms.
I could stand, have stood, blindfold, dizzied, led miles from all that is familiar and oriented myself in moments, by the trees and the stars, by the sun on my face and the smell of the earth; by the shape of the very land. Secure, complete, wound vine-strong through the soul.
And here I am, rootless, unfettered by the touch of the earth. The only sounds are the high humming of electronics and the soft, relentless, unending susurration of water on the edges of this artificial island. A great mystery of the Ancients. Did they really live and love here? Was this home for them? Did it call them, hold them, fit them?
Here? In cold metal and hollow plastics and colored glass, where the faint smell of salt is everywhere and the hum of power soaks the air? Was this the place their heart called to; the place they left behind; the place whose loss broke their hearts; a matched emptiness in its halls hollowing out the core of it?
Perhaps we have something in common then. But these halls do not fill my heart; I hate the ocean's bleak desert; and there is emptiness on Athos that holds my gaze, wherever I am, no matter that the stars are against us and my people have turned their faces from me.
I want to stand barefoot on leaf covered loam and know, by the breath in my nose and the sun on my face, and the wholeness in my heart that I am home.
2. Afraid
Spoilers: The Hive
Secret postcard
He barrel-rolled out of the way of yet another Dart and called up a gate address. Somewhere deserted, quiet. Dead. Nowhere that he could bring the Wraith to. At least one followed him through and he screamed through the atmosphere, half loop and roll, and fire, fast as thought. He flinched as his Dart ripped through the burning fragments, and dragged it around, back to the Gate. The ring was empty, no more Wraith -- not until someone thought to follow him.
"But I guess they're kind of busy right now..."
He released Teyla and Ronon from the Dart's storage. They appeared, small figures far below, and he descended, landing near enough to the Gate that any backwash would obliterate it. No point leaving any advantages for the enemy, and scrambled out hastily, one eye on the ring for the telltale of glyphs lighting up.
They met by the DHD, Teyla smiling faintly, Ronon looking gleeful.
"All okay?" he asked them.
"I am well."
"Are they dead?" Ronon asked.
"I sure hope so," he said, "persuaded them to fire on each other. When I left the party nobody seemed to be having any fun any more."
Ronon grinned approvingly, and slapped him on the back. John staggered a little, and straightened. He reached to the DHD and started slapping at the glyphs. Six and point of origin...
"Here," Teyla said quietly, and hit the last one, and then the activation pad.
John narrowed his eyes, "Hey, I was getting there."
"Teyla was faster," Ronon observed. "If you can't keep up, perhaps you shouldn't--"
John turned away and stalked towards the Stargate. Behind him Teyla said in a soft, conciliatory voice, "I believe he is concerned for Doctor McKay."
"Yeah?" Ronon paused, not getting it. John couldn't exactly blame him. "Shouldn't we go back to the other planet then--"
"You guys are going to go into withdrawal; and I can't take down Ford's men on my own. I'm not risking McKay's life without more men." That sounded good. Logical even.
"But--" Ronon protested.
"Ronon," John said flatly, not looking at him, "we go back later."
He could feel the weight of their stares on his back, but this was the right decision. He doesn't have a good record on hostage situations. This time, it's too important to rush in. The last time he'd made the wrong call on a hostage situation, they'd ended up dead. He'd gone in hot and furious, desperate to save people. There hadn't been any gunshots; he'd believed himself invisible, invincible.
He could still smell the blood, drenching the ground, sweet and sickening, black gouts emptied out of gashed throats and empty groins. Only now, their faces weren't Mitch and Dex.
Ford had said Rodney was his insurance. And Ford was dead. Ford's men wouldn't know that yet. They'd wait. They'd hope. They wouldn't just execute him for being alive...
He had time. As long as they kept moving forward, he had time. He watched Teyla's hands tremble; saw Ronon's face tighten. If he went now, he'd save no one.
He had to get backup from Atlantis before Teyla and Ronon went back into withdrawal, or turn on him looking for more enzyme. He had to get backup to take down Ford's men safely, hopped up on enzyme as they were, without compromising Rodney's safety.
They'd go as soon as they had a plan.
They'd go as soon as they got home.
Maybe Rodney would be okay.
He'd be sitting there, eating and bitching about having to wait. Blood running down his throat.
No.
They stepped through the gate into a gale of welcome, and he thought, he'd ask in a minute. When the first excitement had worn off. When they were ready.
When he was ready.
They needed to debrief; catch up; get checked out in the infirmary... he'd ask soon. Teyla and Ronon would be off the enzyme soon.
No rush.
Soon.
It had nothing to do with the lingering image of Rodney splayed on his back, a dark mouth open in his throat, silencing all those words, blue shirt black with blood.
3. Mirror
Spoilers for Duet
There's a postcard. It's a blank white one, with an empty square marked for the stamp, and a thin line dividing the text from the address. It seems an odd sort of division. Across the line, in careful block letters, written in marker pen, is I don't remember how to be just me. Near it is a post-it note, in a different, rounder hand, that says: sometimes, I don't believe the mirror.
I remember -- I remember we, us, split and blended, fractured and whole.
In my dreams we slide through the mirror, pieces dancing seamlessly, interchangeably; lost, found, known, vanished.
I remember -- I remember touching her, and kissing her; the lush sweet taste of her lips, the smooth skin, the soft, yielding flesh pressed against my aching body, not my ache, not my desire, pressing close against her, swimming in her fragrance; oh, and the harsh fabric of that labcoat, the brush of his half shaved face, rough under my lips, startled, tasting of too much coffee and not enough sleep. The smell of labs and creatures and sweat, and long nights eking the mysteries of the universe out of the small miracle of a mouse. And his uncomfortable resistance was a promise, a reminder that we -- I -- can do this again, I *will* do this again. I will not forget, shall never regret; and I'm afraid, this isn't right, this isn't right, wrong taste, wrong shape, wrong eyes ... back away, uncertain, afraid, didn't want it, twist away from. I can't remember, can't think who it was I would never forget, who was real, who was going to remember.
I remember -- I remember making my own army Barbie kit, clumsy stitches, formless pattern, kitted out in glory until Andy laughed and said girls couldn't be soldiers. I was so angry -- I could be anything, could be -- I remember the rush of scales under my hands and the way the notes ran down my back, cascading in mathematical precision through their cadences. I remember shouts ringing in my ears -- shouting back to my DI -- running in full kit, sweaty, breathing hard, cold air dragging through my lungs telling me I'm alive, run, running; gasping for air clutching at the stitch wrenching at my side, can't go on, hurts, it's coming, they're coming, no time, no time, the Wraith are looking for us, for the children, can't run, must run, oh god, we'll die, we'll die...
... the smell of culling. Scrimble scramble all bound up wrapped together, brains in a box, twins in a mind, conjoined at the everything--
Which one is me? Who remains? Where do we cut a beginning, and ending; an edge, a between, when all the lines have smudged and bled?
Rip us apart and the blood still stains.
The wrong face in the mirror, staring back at me, as frozen as I feel.
Fragments, lost, tumbling, I don't know you, I don't know you, I don't know who you are. I *know* you. Us. We. I know *us*. I am us -- no me; no you. No. Shattery, smeared minds wrenched against itself, peeling back the layers -- Be.
Un-be me.
Pieces ripped, crammed apart. Close enough. More or less in the right pieces, in the right places. Close enough. We'll talk about it in the morning. Box it up, fold it away, the stains hidden in the folds. Tissue frail, torn, jagged edged.
Closer.
Step outside of the memories, and be me.
Just... first? Tell me again: which side of the mirror am I standing?
*Hiraeth is Welsh for... that sense of longing for home, for the mountains and the heather and the smell of the land, wanting to stand with your feet in the place that you love, the hazy mountains pulling at you, the sound of your own language, the smiles of your own people, who know how to behave like real human beings, and the curve of the sky and the smell of the wet earth, and the comfort of your own hearth and the family who love you. Hiraeth is longing, and love, and an emptiness that cannot be filled by any other place in the galaxy. The need to be where you belong and all the things that make it so. Hiraeth.
Spoilers per individual story. Too short to be stories, too long for drabbles.
1. Hiraeth*
secret postcard
In the morning I could smell the peat fires, almost smokeless, but warm, rich. Breakfast smells came after when I was very little; until the day I had to make them for myself. Water for tea; grain and milk boiled together; sweetsap from the mallen tree, and in season, petani nuts or ferberries, small and sweet.
The birds called from the forest until the sounds of the camp and the children scattered them.
I knew where everyone was; I knew who was happy and who was discontent. I could accidentally talk to anyone, just by standing near their tent. The click and snap of sticks led me to the place of the warriors; the humming and singing to the weaving and sewing, men and women together holding the beat in the clack and thrust of the looms.
I could stand, have stood, blindfold, dizzied, led miles from all that is familiar and oriented myself in moments, by the trees and the stars, by the sun on my face and the smell of the earth; by the shape of the very land. Secure, complete, wound vine-strong through the soul.
And here I am, rootless, unfettered by the touch of the earth. The only sounds are the high humming of electronics and the soft, relentless, unending susurration of water on the edges of this artificial island. A great mystery of the Ancients. Did they really live and love here? Was this home for them? Did it call them, hold them, fit them?
Here? In cold metal and hollow plastics and colored glass, where the faint smell of salt is everywhere and the hum of power soaks the air? Was this the place their heart called to; the place they left behind; the place whose loss broke their hearts; a matched emptiness in its halls hollowing out the core of it?
Perhaps we have something in common then. But these halls do not fill my heart; I hate the ocean's bleak desert; and there is emptiness on Athos that holds my gaze, wherever I am, no matter that the stars are against us and my people have turned their faces from me.
I want to stand barefoot on leaf covered loam and know, by the breath in my nose and the sun on my face, and the wholeness in my heart that I am home.
2. Afraid
Spoilers: The Hive
Secret postcard
He barrel-rolled out of the way of yet another Dart and called up a gate address. Somewhere deserted, quiet. Dead. Nowhere that he could bring the Wraith to. At least one followed him through and he screamed through the atmosphere, half loop and roll, and fire, fast as thought. He flinched as his Dart ripped through the burning fragments, and dragged it around, back to the Gate. The ring was empty, no more Wraith -- not until someone thought to follow him.
"But I guess they're kind of busy right now..."
He released Teyla and Ronon from the Dart's storage. They appeared, small figures far below, and he descended, landing near enough to the Gate that any backwash would obliterate it. No point leaving any advantages for the enemy, and scrambled out hastily, one eye on the ring for the telltale of glyphs lighting up.
They met by the DHD, Teyla smiling faintly, Ronon looking gleeful.
"All okay?" he asked them.
"I am well."
"Are they dead?" Ronon asked.
"I sure hope so," he said, "persuaded them to fire on each other. When I left the party nobody seemed to be having any fun any more."
Ronon grinned approvingly, and slapped him on the back. John staggered a little, and straightened. He reached to the DHD and started slapping at the glyphs. Six and point of origin...
"Here," Teyla said quietly, and hit the last one, and then the activation pad.
John narrowed his eyes, "Hey, I was getting there."
"Teyla was faster," Ronon observed. "If you can't keep up, perhaps you shouldn't--"
John turned away and stalked towards the Stargate. Behind him Teyla said in a soft, conciliatory voice, "I believe he is concerned for Doctor McKay."
"Yeah?" Ronon paused, not getting it. John couldn't exactly blame him. "Shouldn't we go back to the other planet then--"
"You guys are going to go into withdrawal; and I can't take down Ford's men on my own. I'm not risking McKay's life without more men." That sounded good. Logical even.
"But--" Ronon protested.
"Ronon," John said flatly, not looking at him, "we go back later."
He could feel the weight of their stares on his back, but this was the right decision. He doesn't have a good record on hostage situations. This time, it's too important to rush in. The last time he'd made the wrong call on a hostage situation, they'd ended up dead. He'd gone in hot and furious, desperate to save people. There hadn't been any gunshots; he'd believed himself invisible, invincible.
He could still smell the blood, drenching the ground, sweet and sickening, black gouts emptied out of gashed throats and empty groins. Only now, their faces weren't Mitch and Dex.
Ford had said Rodney was his insurance. And Ford was dead. Ford's men wouldn't know that yet. They'd wait. They'd hope. They wouldn't just execute him for being alive...
He had time. As long as they kept moving forward, he had time. He watched Teyla's hands tremble; saw Ronon's face tighten. If he went now, he'd save no one.
He had to get backup from Atlantis before Teyla and Ronon went back into withdrawal, or turn on him looking for more enzyme. He had to get backup to take down Ford's men safely, hopped up on enzyme as they were, without compromising Rodney's safety.
They'd go as soon as they had a plan.
They'd go as soon as they got home.
Maybe Rodney would be okay.
He'd be sitting there, eating and bitching about having to wait. Blood running down his throat.
No.
They stepped through the gate into a gale of welcome, and he thought, he'd ask in a minute. When the first excitement had worn off. When they were ready.
When he was ready.
They needed to debrief; catch up; get checked out in the infirmary... he'd ask soon. Teyla and Ronon would be off the enzyme soon.
No rush.
Soon.
It had nothing to do with the lingering image of Rodney splayed on his back, a dark mouth open in his throat, silencing all those words, blue shirt black with blood.
3. Mirror
Spoilers for Duet
There's a postcard. It's a blank white one, with an empty square marked for the stamp, and a thin line dividing the text from the address. It seems an odd sort of division. Across the line, in careful block letters, written in marker pen, is I don't remember how to be just me. Near it is a post-it note, in a different, rounder hand, that says: sometimes, I don't believe the mirror.
I remember -- I remember we, us, split and blended, fractured and whole.
In my dreams we slide through the mirror, pieces dancing seamlessly, interchangeably; lost, found, known, vanished.
I remember -- I remember touching her, and kissing her; the lush sweet taste of her lips, the smooth skin, the soft, yielding flesh pressed against my aching body, not my ache, not my desire, pressing close against her, swimming in her fragrance; oh, and the harsh fabric of that labcoat, the brush of his half shaved face, rough under my lips, startled, tasting of too much coffee and not enough sleep. The smell of labs and creatures and sweat, and long nights eking the mysteries of the universe out of the small miracle of a mouse. And his uncomfortable resistance was a promise, a reminder that we -- I -- can do this again, I *will* do this again. I will not forget, shall never regret; and I'm afraid, this isn't right, this isn't right, wrong taste, wrong shape, wrong eyes ... back away, uncertain, afraid, didn't want it, twist away from. I can't remember, can't think who it was I would never forget, who was real, who was going to remember.
I remember -- I remember making my own army Barbie kit, clumsy stitches, formless pattern, kitted out in glory until Andy laughed and said girls couldn't be soldiers. I was so angry -- I could be anything, could be -- I remember the rush of scales under my hands and the way the notes ran down my back, cascading in mathematical precision through their cadences. I remember shouts ringing in my ears -- shouting back to my DI -- running in full kit, sweaty, breathing hard, cold air dragging through my lungs telling me I'm alive, run, running; gasping for air clutching at the stitch wrenching at my side, can't go on, hurts, it's coming, they're coming, no time, no time, the Wraith are looking for us, for the children, can't run, must run, oh god, we'll die, we'll die...
... the smell of culling. Scrimble scramble all bound up wrapped together, brains in a box, twins in a mind, conjoined at the everything--
Which one is me? Who remains? Where do we cut a beginning, and ending; an edge, a between, when all the lines have smudged and bled?
Rip us apart and the blood still stains.
The wrong face in the mirror, staring back at me, as frozen as I feel.
Fragments, lost, tumbling, I don't know you, I don't know you, I don't know who you are. I *know* you. Us. We. I know *us*. I am us -- no me; no you. No. Shattery, smeared minds wrenched against itself, peeling back the layers -- Be.
Un-be me.
Pieces ripped, crammed apart. Close enough. More or less in the right pieces, in the right places. Close enough. We'll talk about it in the morning. Box it up, fold it away, the stains hidden in the folds. Tissue frail, torn, jagged edged.
Closer.
Step outside of the memories, and be me.
Just... first? Tell me again: which side of the mirror am I standing?
*Hiraeth is Welsh for... that sense of longing for home, for the mountains and the heather and the smell of the land, wanting to stand with your feet in the place that you love, the hazy mountains pulling at you, the sound of your own language, the smiles of your own people, who know how to behave like real human beings, and the curve of the sky and the smell of the wet earth, and the comfort of your own hearth and the family who love you. Hiraeth is longing, and love, and an emptiness that cannot be filled by any other place in the galaxy. The need to be where you belong and all the things that make it so. Hiraeth.