Second Verse (Same as the First) by Friendshipper/Sholio
Title: Second Verse (Same as the First)
Author: friendshipper (Sholio)
Word Count: 3000
Rating: PG-13, gen(ish)
Characters: Teyla, John, a little of the rest of the team
Warning: Non-con(ish) situations. Dark. Issues with a capital "I".
Summary: "The Marines call it the Planet of the Willing Virgins, you know." It's the "willing" part that's debatable.
Notes: Takes place before "Missing". Er, sorry about stealing the title of the challenge like that. It was supposed to be a working title, but it stuck.
"About damn time we got to visit M2X-373," Rodney says, walking backwards for a few steps so that his words carry to everyone -- including, Teyla thinks, the birds in the trees, and possibly the Ancestors as well. "The Marines call it the Planet of the Willing Virgins, you know. Why have you been holding out on us, Sheppard?"
John snorts, his expression mostly hidden behind his dark glasses. "Yeah, it's just to mess with you, Rodney. The rest of us come here on every other Tuesday, and twice on Saturdays."
"Planet of the willing virgins?" Teyla says, wondering if she is missing some cultural nuance.
"Apparently, they love us here." Rodney spreads his arms wide, gesturing with his scanner. "According to Teller's team, they were greeted with open arms, baskets of fruit and grain, and nubile women all over the place. Every team that comes back from this world says the same thing. They just can't wait to throw a feast for their visitors and, uh, welcome them with charming hospitality." He darts a sideways glance at Teyla.
She offers him a raised eyebrow, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. Men are the same the universe over. "I see."
"I'm sure they have nubile male virgins, too," John says dryly. "Just keep your pants on for awhile, okay, boys and girls? These people are one of our best trading partners; we've been getting grain from them for two years, and they ask hardly anything in return -- we just give them a couple cases of medical supplies, once or twice a year. We want to stay on their good side."
Rodney is right about the regard with which the Atlanteans are held, Teyla observes. As they approached the village, people working in the fields throw down their tools, and by the time they reach the village proper, they have an entourage of awed, wide-eyed teens and children.
"Morning, folks." John tosses off a little salute to the hushed and murmuring crowd that has gathered in the middle of the ring of thatched houses. "Headman Kendrell around, by any chance?"
"My most profound apologies!" The man who appears from behind a knot of whispering women is about the age that her own father would be had he lived, Teyla guesses. He wears his long hair braided down his back, and a blue-inked tattoo curves around each side of his mouth. "We did not expect you so soon ..." He trails off. "You are not the ones who have come before ...?" It is somewhere between statement and question.
"Yeah, Sergeant Teller and Lieutenant Kane's teams are the ones you've dealt with in the past, for the most part, but they've both, uh, gone back home, to other assignments. I'm Colonel Sheppard; this is Doctor McKay ..." As John introduces his team, Teyla notices the headman's eyes lingering with brief and quickly stifled curiosity on herself and Ronon. Was that a flash of fear? She cannot tell.
"Then allow me to welcome you to our small, inconsequential town. Please, please ... sit, good sir, sirs, lady; please sit. We will prepare refreshments for you. It has been too long since your people last graced us with your presence ..." The headman continues to pour out effusive greetings while some of the older women bring leather cushions and woven grass mats, laying them out in the dusty village commons.
"I see what Teller was talking about," Ronon remarks, throwing himself down across two of the cushions.
"Yeah ... I could get used to this." Belying his words somewhat, John glances around before sitting down, and keeps his gun close at hand.
Clay bowls of water are brought for them, and platters of sliced fruit drizzled with honey. Teyla props her chin in her hand and watches as the women and older teenage girls stir up the common fire and began to haul out copper kettles. A sharp pang runs through her, remembering similar chores from her youth -- the sense of camaraderie, the half-forgotten songs the women used to sing as they worked. She will have to try to spend more time with her people, if she can.
"According to Teller's reports, they always have a surplus at harvest," John is saying to Ronon, who has asked some kind of question. "They have more than enough food; they don't mind giving us some of it."
"Can hardly tell by looking at 'em," Ronon says, and Teyla can't help privately agreeing. These people are not starving, but most of them are thin. They wear simple, draped shifts; she sees few beads or other ornaments. Just from looking at them, she would have thought them quite poor compared to her own people, and she can't help a slight flinch as she watches the women haul out a slaughtered stock-beast for the fire -- a healthy young heifer, that could have produced many calves. Perhaps they hide their wealth, so the Wraith do not come, she thinks, but something still feels a bit wrong to her.
"Hsst." Rodney nudges John, accidentally jostling Teyla in the process. "Nubile virgins at twelve o'clock."
John bats down his hand. "That's good, Rodney -- point at them. Way to score."
"Keep your voice down!" Rodney hisses in a penetrating whisper, a blush climbing to the tips of his ears.
The girls who approach, bearing more trays of fruit, are dressed similarly to the other women -- draped shifts, bare feet -- but they have recently bathed away the dust of the fields, and strings of flowers twine about their necks. There are several of them; a curly-haired redhead immediately takes up orbit around John, while the others gravitate towards Rodney and Ronon. No one is paying all that much attention to Teyla, including her teammates, for which she is grateful. She takes a piece of honeyed fruit and tries to ignore the unpleasant fluttering sensation in her belly.
John glances at her over the top of his shades. "Guess they're not used to women visitors, Teyla. Want me to ask them if they --"
"No, I am quite well," she interrupts. His tone is flippant, and she can tell he means well, but this situation still sits uneasily with her.
The smell of roasting meat wafts over the village as the short day draws into afternoon. Some of the men bring out instruments and begin to play a brisk, skirling tune. Teyla can't help noticing that one of the musicians keeps glaring at the dusky brunette who is paying particular attention to Rodney, lifting pieces of candied fruit to his mouth and smiling shyly at his clumsy attempts at small talk.
A sweetheart, perhaps? she thinks. This bodes ill. The glowering young man's gaze drifts to her; she offers him a cautious smile, but his scowl darkens and he looks away, back to his instrument.
Her teammates appear to be enjoying themselves, but Teyla thinks the entire atmosphere seems awfully tense for a celebration. People are dancing, a stylized local dance that involves a lot of kicking, but she can't help noticing that most of them aren't smiling except when their faces are turned towards the visitors. She feels her own hand drift towards the P90 laying beside her cushion, and notices that John seems similarly wary.
Two of the girls tug on Ronon's hands until he gets up and joins the dance. The brunette has settled in beside Rodney, stroking his chest through his shirt and leaning to touch her lips lightly to his. There is something stiff about her, oddly restrained, but Rodney does not appear to notice, or perhaps does not care. Teyla keeps darting glances at the musician, until she has to look away; the mingled fury and grief in his face is too painful to bear.
"Excuse me," the redhead next to John murmurs suddenly, and she rises with an apologetic, frozen smile and hurries away towards the village's latrines.
A perfect opportunity. "Pardon me, I will be back in a moment," Teyla says, and she gets up as well, and follows the girl.
There is no sign of her at the latrines, but Teyla hears the sound of retching in the grass, and follows it to find the girl on her hands and knees, her body shuddering. The girl swallows and runs the back of her hand across her mouth, glancing up at Teyla and then giving her a sharp second glance as she recognizes her. "Oh, I am so sorry, please -- it is only, I believe I ate something that unsettled me," she gasps, scrambling to her feet.
Teyla hasn't seen her eat anything at all, except an occasional nibble now and then between feeding bites to John. "It is all right. Would you like some water?"
"No ... I'm fine ..." But she allows Teyla to help her sit down. Her face is flushed and damp with sweat, but she still shivers occasionally. "Please, you won't tell the Colonel, will you? It isn't because of him. He is a ... a very handsome man."
"I suppose that he is," Teyla says, cautiously, and places a sympathetic hand on the girl's shoulder. In the harsh light of the sun, she had guessed the girl's age at sixteen or so; here, in the softer shadows, she revises her estimate downward. "How old are you?"
"This is my thirteenth summer." The girl sweeps damp red curls out of her face. "I am so sorry. I'm just afraid. I have not been with a man before."
Teyla bites the insides of her lips, and sweeps her hand in soothing circles on the girl's back. "It is all right. There is nothing to be afraid of. What is your name?"
"Kilah," the girl whispers.
"Kilah. A beautiful name." Teyla continues to stroke the girl's -- the child's -- back. She cannot help an irrational surge of anger at John on Kilah's behalf, but she knows it isn't his fault; he and his people often have difficulty correctly guessing the ages of people in this galaxy, just as she often finds the Atlanteans surprisingly old for their youthful appearance. Life on Earth does not age a person as it does here. What she cannot understand is how this state of affairs has come to be, for the girl is clearly more frightened than flirtatious, and she thinks of the young musician with so much anger in his eyes. "Tell me, Kilah, the others -- I saw one young man looking at the dark-haired girl who is with my teammate. Is he her sweetheart?"
The girl hesitates, fear evident in her face, but she cannot withstand Teyla's sympathy. "That is Allana's husband. They have two small children."
Teyla draws some calming breaths; she doesn't want to frighten the girl even more than she obviously already is. "Then can you tell me, please, why she is sitting with my teammate rather than her husband?"
And the girl tells her.
******
The roasted stock-beast is just being hauled off the fire when Teyla marches back to her teammates. "We are leaving," she says, shrugging into her tac vest.
Rodney looks up, his arm around the brunette. "Hey! They haven't even fed us yet!"
Teyla manages not to hit him, but it is a close thing.
"What's going on?" John asks, shifting from relaxed-but-wary to tense. His hand slides towards his gun. "Did they try anything? You were gone a long time --"
"I will tell you when we are away from this place. We are leaving now."
The musicians trail off into discord and then silence; the dancers fall out of sync and break apart, and the two girls holding Ronon's hands let go in tandem. A susurration of murmurs rises around Teyla, and here is the headman, parting his people, stumbling towards them with abject fear in his eyes.
"I am so sorry! Have we done something? Displeased you?"
In one of the few times that she has ever undermined John's authority offworld, Teyla takes the headman's hands in her own, giving her team leader no chance to speak -- she cannot explain the situation in front of these people, and dares not find out what John might say in ignorance. "Headman Kendrell, I am so very sorry. You have done nothing wrong. There is a situation we must attend back on our homeworld. We will return --" She pauses, seeing the flash of abject fear in his eyes -- a fear she understands much better now. "You have received us well, Headman Kendrell, and we are greatly honored by the reception in our honor." The words taste like ashes in her mouth. "Please understand, we need only return to our people to settle some matters that have nothing to do with you."
He backs away; she cannot tell if her small attempts at damage control (too little, too late) have made things better or worse. The only spot of light, in this ugly mess, is her teammates' trust in her. Wordlessly, John has herded the others together, collecting their gear and preparing to retreat. All their weapons are out, and bile rises in Teyla's throat at the naked terror in the townspeople's eyes. At the back of the crowd, she sees the red-haired girl cowering.
"Go," she says to John, and they go. Ronon covers their retreat. Teyla is briefly worried about an attack -- terrified people are desperate people. But no one tries to stop them from leaving, though she sees a few of the muscular young farmers being restrained or calmed by their comrades.
They're away from the village, on the path to the Stargate, before John speaks. "Okay, fill us in here, Teyla. What did you find out? They planning on selling us out to Wraith? Genii?"
She can only shake her head, trying to find words. Her P90 still hangs from its vest clip; she has not touched it. "They are not the enemy here, John. We are."
He gives her a raised eyebrow.
"John, they do not honor us as guests. They honor us as conquerers. They give us food and women so that we will not kill them." Teyla swallows; her hands are shaking. "The girl you were so enamored of ... she is only thirteen. The others are all married. Their husbands were forced to watch, and say nothing, this time, as all the other times your people have come here; they had no choice, for otherwise they thought we would attack their village and kill them all."
Rodney opens his mouth a few times, closing it each time without saying anything. John's face is hard and tight. "How the hell did they get that idea? Teller's the one who made first contact with them, and I think I know the guy pretty well. He's practically a Boy Scout. I can't imagine anyone less likely to pillage and plunder."
"He did not have to. These people have been attacked and raided before, John. They have few weapons and cannot defend themselves. When another group of well-armed strangers came through the Ring, they offered them food and their women's bodies if they would only go away without hurting anyone. And they did -- until they came again, for more tribute. And again. And again."
"God." John scrubs his hands through his hair, face gone pale. "This place is like a vacation spot. We send teams here to relax."
Teyla can find nothing to say to that. For the rest of the walk to the gate, even Rodney is silent.
******
John finds her, eventually, in the gym. She has gone through all the forms of the bantos rods, advancing to harder and harder maneuvers, the ones she has not shown anyone in this city, the ones she has barely mastered herself. Her hands are wet on the polished wood, her muscles twitching with fatigue, but her restless mind drives her further, to moves that she is sure her aching body will remember for days.
She is not sure where Ronon has gone. Running, perhaps. He does not seem nearly as bothered by the situation as she is -- as she feels he ought to be. Perhaps it is simply that he has seen so much death and betrayal in his all-too-short life that he no longer feels the sting as she does. Perhaps it is because he will never side against John, and John's people -- because he feels a loyalty for them that she herself has never felt, for all that she loves them. Perhaps, too, it is a cultural difference between them, and she likes that option least of all, because she would hope to think that the revulsion she feels is more than just a learned, reflexive thing.
John watches her from the doorway for a while. When it becomes clear that he will not leave, she looks over at him, acknowledging him so that he will say his piece and go away.
"Carter's going to head to M2X-373 tomorrow, try to start smoothing things over," John says at last. "She'd like you to come."
Teyla offers a brief nod. She had walked out of the debriefing meeting when Carter continued to insist -- with only the best intentions, Teyla is sure -- that they can resolve the misunderstanding. That was her word: misunderstanding.
"So ... that mean you'll go?"
She fumbles a particularly difficult cross-motion, and reverts back to an exercise of intermediate ability, the Forms of the Lake-Bird. The more advanced patterns are too difficult to maintain while carrying on a conversation. "Of course I will go," she says at last, flicking her head to throw sweat-damp hair from her face.
"Teyla, we had no idea."
"I know. I do not blame you." Not specifically, at any rate. The anger will pass, she knows, and the heavy knot in her belly will twist and tighten until it is small enough to ignore.
"Look, we've fixed -- okay, we're fixing the situation on M2X-373, okay?" John's look is pleading. "We're negotiating with them as equals --"
"You cannot negotiate as equals, John." Teyla spits the words as she executes the Twelfth Form of the Lake-bird. Her movements are jerky, imprecise. She will have to start over. "Not when they have bows and arrows, and a handful of traded Genii guns, while you have an army of heavily-armed men at your back, and ships that can sterilize their planet. You cannot come to the trading table as equals under those circumstances, no matter how you might wish it, no matter how you might try; do you not understand this?"
After a long moment of silence, during which time she begins the slow, dancelike movements of the first Lake-bird Forms again, he says in a tone heavy with anger, "So what the hell are we supposed to do, Teyla? If people think we're invaders or gods, the first time they catch a glimpse of our weapons?"
She finishes the Third Form before speaking. "Then you try to act as benign ones, John." The helpless anger builds once again inside her, and speaks through her, even if it breaks her a little -- for she chose this role long ago: the voice of those in her galaxy who have no voice on Atlantis. "If your people have been raping women on M2X-373 for two years ... what else have they been doing in this galaxy, John?"
John doesn't answer. After a few moments, he leaves.
It takes a long time for her racing heart to beat normally again.
Author: friendshipper (Sholio)
Word Count: 3000
Rating: PG-13, gen(ish)
Characters: Teyla, John, a little of the rest of the team
Warning: Non-con(ish) situations. Dark. Issues with a capital "I".
Summary: "The Marines call it the Planet of the Willing Virgins, you know." It's the "willing" part that's debatable.
Notes: Takes place before "Missing". Er, sorry about stealing the title of the challenge like that. It was supposed to be a working title, but it stuck.
"About damn time we got to visit M2X-373," Rodney says, walking backwards for a few steps so that his words carry to everyone -- including, Teyla thinks, the birds in the trees, and possibly the Ancestors as well. "The Marines call it the Planet of the Willing Virgins, you know. Why have you been holding out on us, Sheppard?"
John snorts, his expression mostly hidden behind his dark glasses. "Yeah, it's just to mess with you, Rodney. The rest of us come here on every other Tuesday, and twice on Saturdays."
"Planet of the willing virgins?" Teyla says, wondering if she is missing some cultural nuance.
"Apparently, they love us here." Rodney spreads his arms wide, gesturing with his scanner. "According to Teller's team, they were greeted with open arms, baskets of fruit and grain, and nubile women all over the place. Every team that comes back from this world says the same thing. They just can't wait to throw a feast for their visitors and, uh, welcome them with charming hospitality." He darts a sideways glance at Teyla.
She offers him a raised eyebrow, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. Men are the same the universe over. "I see."
"I'm sure they have nubile male virgins, too," John says dryly. "Just keep your pants on for awhile, okay, boys and girls? These people are one of our best trading partners; we've been getting grain from them for two years, and they ask hardly anything in return -- we just give them a couple cases of medical supplies, once or twice a year. We want to stay on their good side."
Rodney is right about the regard with which the Atlanteans are held, Teyla observes. As they approached the village, people working in the fields throw down their tools, and by the time they reach the village proper, they have an entourage of awed, wide-eyed teens and children.
"Morning, folks." John tosses off a little salute to the hushed and murmuring crowd that has gathered in the middle of the ring of thatched houses. "Headman Kendrell around, by any chance?"
"My most profound apologies!" The man who appears from behind a knot of whispering women is about the age that her own father would be had he lived, Teyla guesses. He wears his long hair braided down his back, and a blue-inked tattoo curves around each side of his mouth. "We did not expect you so soon ..." He trails off. "You are not the ones who have come before ...?" It is somewhere between statement and question.
"Yeah, Sergeant Teller and Lieutenant Kane's teams are the ones you've dealt with in the past, for the most part, but they've both, uh, gone back home, to other assignments. I'm Colonel Sheppard; this is Doctor McKay ..." As John introduces his team, Teyla notices the headman's eyes lingering with brief and quickly stifled curiosity on herself and Ronon. Was that a flash of fear? She cannot tell.
"Then allow me to welcome you to our small, inconsequential town. Please, please ... sit, good sir, sirs, lady; please sit. We will prepare refreshments for you. It has been too long since your people last graced us with your presence ..." The headman continues to pour out effusive greetings while some of the older women bring leather cushions and woven grass mats, laying them out in the dusty village commons.
"I see what Teller was talking about," Ronon remarks, throwing himself down across two of the cushions.
"Yeah ... I could get used to this." Belying his words somewhat, John glances around before sitting down, and keeps his gun close at hand.
Clay bowls of water are brought for them, and platters of sliced fruit drizzled with honey. Teyla props her chin in her hand and watches as the women and older teenage girls stir up the common fire and began to haul out copper kettles. A sharp pang runs through her, remembering similar chores from her youth -- the sense of camaraderie, the half-forgotten songs the women used to sing as they worked. She will have to try to spend more time with her people, if she can.
"According to Teller's reports, they always have a surplus at harvest," John is saying to Ronon, who has asked some kind of question. "They have more than enough food; they don't mind giving us some of it."
"Can hardly tell by looking at 'em," Ronon says, and Teyla can't help privately agreeing. These people are not starving, but most of them are thin. They wear simple, draped shifts; she sees few beads or other ornaments. Just from looking at them, she would have thought them quite poor compared to her own people, and she can't help a slight flinch as she watches the women haul out a slaughtered stock-beast for the fire -- a healthy young heifer, that could have produced many calves. Perhaps they hide their wealth, so the Wraith do not come, she thinks, but something still feels a bit wrong to her.
"Hsst." Rodney nudges John, accidentally jostling Teyla in the process. "Nubile virgins at twelve o'clock."
John bats down his hand. "That's good, Rodney -- point at them. Way to score."
"Keep your voice down!" Rodney hisses in a penetrating whisper, a blush climbing to the tips of his ears.
The girls who approach, bearing more trays of fruit, are dressed similarly to the other women -- draped shifts, bare feet -- but they have recently bathed away the dust of the fields, and strings of flowers twine about their necks. There are several of them; a curly-haired redhead immediately takes up orbit around John, while the others gravitate towards Rodney and Ronon. No one is paying all that much attention to Teyla, including her teammates, for which she is grateful. She takes a piece of honeyed fruit and tries to ignore the unpleasant fluttering sensation in her belly.
John glances at her over the top of his shades. "Guess they're not used to women visitors, Teyla. Want me to ask them if they --"
"No, I am quite well," she interrupts. His tone is flippant, and she can tell he means well, but this situation still sits uneasily with her.
The smell of roasting meat wafts over the village as the short day draws into afternoon. Some of the men bring out instruments and begin to play a brisk, skirling tune. Teyla can't help noticing that one of the musicians keeps glaring at the dusky brunette who is paying particular attention to Rodney, lifting pieces of candied fruit to his mouth and smiling shyly at his clumsy attempts at small talk.
A sweetheart, perhaps? she thinks. This bodes ill. The glowering young man's gaze drifts to her; she offers him a cautious smile, but his scowl darkens and he looks away, back to his instrument.
Her teammates appear to be enjoying themselves, but Teyla thinks the entire atmosphere seems awfully tense for a celebration. People are dancing, a stylized local dance that involves a lot of kicking, but she can't help noticing that most of them aren't smiling except when their faces are turned towards the visitors. She feels her own hand drift towards the P90 laying beside her cushion, and notices that John seems similarly wary.
Two of the girls tug on Ronon's hands until he gets up and joins the dance. The brunette has settled in beside Rodney, stroking his chest through his shirt and leaning to touch her lips lightly to his. There is something stiff about her, oddly restrained, but Rodney does not appear to notice, or perhaps does not care. Teyla keeps darting glances at the musician, until she has to look away; the mingled fury and grief in his face is too painful to bear.
"Excuse me," the redhead next to John murmurs suddenly, and she rises with an apologetic, frozen smile and hurries away towards the village's latrines.
A perfect opportunity. "Pardon me, I will be back in a moment," Teyla says, and she gets up as well, and follows the girl.
There is no sign of her at the latrines, but Teyla hears the sound of retching in the grass, and follows it to find the girl on her hands and knees, her body shuddering. The girl swallows and runs the back of her hand across her mouth, glancing up at Teyla and then giving her a sharp second glance as she recognizes her. "Oh, I am so sorry, please -- it is only, I believe I ate something that unsettled me," she gasps, scrambling to her feet.
Teyla hasn't seen her eat anything at all, except an occasional nibble now and then between feeding bites to John. "It is all right. Would you like some water?"
"No ... I'm fine ..." But she allows Teyla to help her sit down. Her face is flushed and damp with sweat, but she still shivers occasionally. "Please, you won't tell the Colonel, will you? It isn't because of him. He is a ... a very handsome man."
"I suppose that he is," Teyla says, cautiously, and places a sympathetic hand on the girl's shoulder. In the harsh light of the sun, she had guessed the girl's age at sixteen or so; here, in the softer shadows, she revises her estimate downward. "How old are you?"
"This is my thirteenth summer." The girl sweeps damp red curls out of her face. "I am so sorry. I'm just afraid. I have not been with a man before."
Teyla bites the insides of her lips, and sweeps her hand in soothing circles on the girl's back. "It is all right. There is nothing to be afraid of. What is your name?"
"Kilah," the girl whispers.
"Kilah. A beautiful name." Teyla continues to stroke the girl's -- the child's -- back. She cannot help an irrational surge of anger at John on Kilah's behalf, but she knows it isn't his fault; he and his people often have difficulty correctly guessing the ages of people in this galaxy, just as she often finds the Atlanteans surprisingly old for their youthful appearance. Life on Earth does not age a person as it does here. What she cannot understand is how this state of affairs has come to be, for the girl is clearly more frightened than flirtatious, and she thinks of the young musician with so much anger in his eyes. "Tell me, Kilah, the others -- I saw one young man looking at the dark-haired girl who is with my teammate. Is he her sweetheart?"
The girl hesitates, fear evident in her face, but she cannot withstand Teyla's sympathy. "That is Allana's husband. They have two small children."
Teyla draws some calming breaths; she doesn't want to frighten the girl even more than she obviously already is. "Then can you tell me, please, why she is sitting with my teammate rather than her husband?"
And the girl tells her.
******
The roasted stock-beast is just being hauled off the fire when Teyla marches back to her teammates. "We are leaving," she says, shrugging into her tac vest.
Rodney looks up, his arm around the brunette. "Hey! They haven't even fed us yet!"
Teyla manages not to hit him, but it is a close thing.
"What's going on?" John asks, shifting from relaxed-but-wary to tense. His hand slides towards his gun. "Did they try anything? You were gone a long time --"
"I will tell you when we are away from this place. We are leaving now."
The musicians trail off into discord and then silence; the dancers fall out of sync and break apart, and the two girls holding Ronon's hands let go in tandem. A susurration of murmurs rises around Teyla, and here is the headman, parting his people, stumbling towards them with abject fear in his eyes.
"I am so sorry! Have we done something? Displeased you?"
In one of the few times that she has ever undermined John's authority offworld, Teyla takes the headman's hands in her own, giving her team leader no chance to speak -- she cannot explain the situation in front of these people, and dares not find out what John might say in ignorance. "Headman Kendrell, I am so very sorry. You have done nothing wrong. There is a situation we must attend back on our homeworld. We will return --" She pauses, seeing the flash of abject fear in his eyes -- a fear she understands much better now. "You have received us well, Headman Kendrell, and we are greatly honored by the reception in our honor." The words taste like ashes in her mouth. "Please understand, we need only return to our people to settle some matters that have nothing to do with you."
He backs away; she cannot tell if her small attempts at damage control (too little, too late) have made things better or worse. The only spot of light, in this ugly mess, is her teammates' trust in her. Wordlessly, John has herded the others together, collecting their gear and preparing to retreat. All their weapons are out, and bile rises in Teyla's throat at the naked terror in the townspeople's eyes. At the back of the crowd, she sees the red-haired girl cowering.
"Go," she says to John, and they go. Ronon covers their retreat. Teyla is briefly worried about an attack -- terrified people are desperate people. But no one tries to stop them from leaving, though she sees a few of the muscular young farmers being restrained or calmed by their comrades.
They're away from the village, on the path to the Stargate, before John speaks. "Okay, fill us in here, Teyla. What did you find out? They planning on selling us out to Wraith? Genii?"
She can only shake her head, trying to find words. Her P90 still hangs from its vest clip; she has not touched it. "They are not the enemy here, John. We are."
He gives her a raised eyebrow.
"John, they do not honor us as guests. They honor us as conquerers. They give us food and women so that we will not kill them." Teyla swallows; her hands are shaking. "The girl you were so enamored of ... she is only thirteen. The others are all married. Their husbands were forced to watch, and say nothing, this time, as all the other times your people have come here; they had no choice, for otherwise they thought we would attack their village and kill them all."
Rodney opens his mouth a few times, closing it each time without saying anything. John's face is hard and tight. "How the hell did they get that idea? Teller's the one who made first contact with them, and I think I know the guy pretty well. He's practically a Boy Scout. I can't imagine anyone less likely to pillage and plunder."
"He did not have to. These people have been attacked and raided before, John. They have few weapons and cannot defend themselves. When another group of well-armed strangers came through the Ring, they offered them food and their women's bodies if they would only go away without hurting anyone. And they did -- until they came again, for more tribute. And again. And again."
"God." John scrubs his hands through his hair, face gone pale. "This place is like a vacation spot. We send teams here to relax."
Teyla can find nothing to say to that. For the rest of the walk to the gate, even Rodney is silent.
******
John finds her, eventually, in the gym. She has gone through all the forms of the bantos rods, advancing to harder and harder maneuvers, the ones she has not shown anyone in this city, the ones she has barely mastered herself. Her hands are wet on the polished wood, her muscles twitching with fatigue, but her restless mind drives her further, to moves that she is sure her aching body will remember for days.
She is not sure where Ronon has gone. Running, perhaps. He does not seem nearly as bothered by the situation as she is -- as she feels he ought to be. Perhaps it is simply that he has seen so much death and betrayal in his all-too-short life that he no longer feels the sting as she does. Perhaps it is because he will never side against John, and John's people -- because he feels a loyalty for them that she herself has never felt, for all that she loves them. Perhaps, too, it is a cultural difference between them, and she likes that option least of all, because she would hope to think that the revulsion she feels is more than just a learned, reflexive thing.
John watches her from the doorway for a while. When it becomes clear that he will not leave, she looks over at him, acknowledging him so that he will say his piece and go away.
"Carter's going to head to M2X-373 tomorrow, try to start smoothing things over," John says at last. "She'd like you to come."
Teyla offers a brief nod. She had walked out of the debriefing meeting when Carter continued to insist -- with only the best intentions, Teyla is sure -- that they can resolve the misunderstanding. That was her word: misunderstanding.
"So ... that mean you'll go?"
She fumbles a particularly difficult cross-motion, and reverts back to an exercise of intermediate ability, the Forms of the Lake-Bird. The more advanced patterns are too difficult to maintain while carrying on a conversation. "Of course I will go," she says at last, flicking her head to throw sweat-damp hair from her face.
"Teyla, we had no idea."
"I know. I do not blame you." Not specifically, at any rate. The anger will pass, she knows, and the heavy knot in her belly will twist and tighten until it is small enough to ignore.
"Look, we've fixed -- okay, we're fixing the situation on M2X-373, okay?" John's look is pleading. "We're negotiating with them as equals --"
"You cannot negotiate as equals, John." Teyla spits the words as she executes the Twelfth Form of the Lake-bird. Her movements are jerky, imprecise. She will have to start over. "Not when they have bows and arrows, and a handful of traded Genii guns, while you have an army of heavily-armed men at your back, and ships that can sterilize their planet. You cannot come to the trading table as equals under those circumstances, no matter how you might wish it, no matter how you might try; do you not understand this?"
After a long moment of silence, during which time she begins the slow, dancelike movements of the first Lake-bird Forms again, he says in a tone heavy with anger, "So what the hell are we supposed to do, Teyla? If people think we're invaders or gods, the first time they catch a glimpse of our weapons?"
She finishes the Third Form before speaking. "Then you try to act as benign ones, John." The helpless anger builds once again inside her, and speaks through her, even if it breaks her a little -- for she chose this role long ago: the voice of those in her galaxy who have no voice on Atlantis. "If your people have been raping women on M2X-373 for two years ... what else have they been doing in this galaxy, John?"
John doesn't answer. After a few moments, he leaves.
It takes a long time for her racing heart to beat normally again.