Born in the Barrens (by rhymer23) (PG)
Show: SGA
Rec Category: Slavefic
Characters: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Ronon Dex, Teyla Emmagan, Elizabeth Weir, Radek Zelenka, Carson Beckett, Acastus Kolya
Categories: Gen
Warnings: No AO3 warnings apply, but the tags mention Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, and Memory Loss. Rhymer's note says: 'There are mentions of torture. It's not immensely graphic, and most of it's seen in brief flashbacks, but it's still there.'
Author on LJ: rhymer23
Author's Website: See the AO3
Link: Born in the Barrens on AO3
Why This Must Be Read: So this may not be what you expected me to rec as slave-fic! *G*. This is a long, plotty fic with rhymer's usual lashings of John!whump, in a fantasy AU where John's a slave of Kolya's who's given to Rodney, who's a master alchemist. It's riveting, as are all of rhymer's stories - this one focuses on abuse, recovery, and the slow development of trust and friendship as John regains his identity. The world-building's excellent - the story starts in the dystopian world of the Genii and we meet more Atlantis Expedition characters later on. Sheppard doesn't start to get his identity back until about half way through. A bit grueling in places, but overall it's a gripping read.
"You." It came out as little more than a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Slave. What's your name?"
The slave looked at him. No, Rodney thought, the slave had been looking at him all the time, even though his head had been bowed. His long dark hair was loose around his neck, and his feet were bare. As Rodney watched, the slave opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Rodney frowned with irritation. "You're supposed to obey me, aren't you?" This was an inconvenience. This was something unplanned. He didn't like inconveniences, not when he was so close to…
"I don't…" The slave seemed to be struggling to produce the words. "I…" He swallowed, and Rodney could see his left fist clenching, tendons pressing against the quickened iron band. "…don't have a name," the slave said. "Each… master--" He said the word with a desperate emphasis. "--has c-called me… something different."
"Like what?" Rodney edged forward, drawn by the alien signature of the chains. Then his fingers brushed the metal, and he caught a sudden glimpse of this man dangling by his wrists from a hook on the ceiling, a lash falling on his back again and again and again. He recoiled, his mouth suddenly dry and foul-tasting.
"'You'," the slave said. "A number. A hound's name. One of my masters..." The other hand clenched, metals chains rippling, whispering more clearly with every moment that passed; Rodney saw cold - excruciating, biting cold - and blood gleaming on the tip of a knife. "He called me… Eagle because…" The slave frowned, his brow wrinkling into deeply-etched accustomed lines. "…I liked to look at… at the… birds flying across the… the sky, before he b-blinded me for a whole lunar cycle with… drugs."
"Oh." Rodney really had no idea what to say. Perhaps it was just that glimpse of metal-borne memory, but the slave looked cold, he thought. On the upper part of his body, he wore only a thin white shirt, open at the neck, showing eyelets where laces once had been.
The chains shifted again. Their voice was almost clear now, and Rodney saw a knife cutting into flesh, and saw a face, a face he knew. "He cut you," Rodney found himself saying. "General Kolya. Last night."
"Marked me." The slave was looking straight ahead. A small drop of blood had soaked through the shirt at his shoulder. "His… initial. They all did - all my… masters."
Rodney wanted to retreat back to his room, to bar the door, to lose himself in phials and quickenings, to hide in his work, to forget, to forget what had brought him here, to this cold cruel city on the far side of the north. "Have you had many?" He swallowed. "Many masters?" What carved letters would he find beneath that shirt? But the chains knew. The chains could show him every drop of blood, every carved inch of flesh, every scream, every scrap of suffering. They had been quickened for this purpose, by somebody who liked to relish pain.
The slave said nothing for a long time. "One there," he said at last, hand moving minutely towards his right shoulder, the chains whispering of things Rodney didn't want to know about. "One there." His other hand shivered upwards, scarred fingers indicating his left shoulder. "Two on the back. One… there," he said, and Rodney saw a silver scar on his breastbone - just the point of a jagged letter emerging from the low neck of his shirt.
Rodney felt sick. He had to keep on talking, he had to, because the chains… "Why--" He scraped his stinging hands across his eyes. "Why do they keep passing you on?"
"Because…" The line between the slave's brows grew deeper, and was that sweat beading on his brow? "Because I didn't submit at first. Because I don't scream."
Rec Category: Slavefic
Characters: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Ronon Dex, Teyla Emmagan, Elizabeth Weir, Radek Zelenka, Carson Beckett, Acastus Kolya
Categories: Gen
Warnings: No AO3 warnings apply, but the tags mention Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, and Memory Loss. Rhymer's note says: 'There are mentions of torture. It's not immensely graphic, and most of it's seen in brief flashbacks, but it's still there.'
Author on LJ: rhymer23
Author's Website: See the AO3
Link: Born in the Barrens on AO3
Why This Must Be Read: So this may not be what you expected me to rec as slave-fic! *G*. This is a long, plotty fic with rhymer's usual lashings of John!whump, in a fantasy AU where John's a slave of Kolya's who's given to Rodney, who's a master alchemist. It's riveting, as are all of rhymer's stories - this one focuses on abuse, recovery, and the slow development of trust and friendship as John regains his identity. The world-building's excellent - the story starts in the dystopian world of the Genii and we meet more Atlantis Expedition characters later on. Sheppard doesn't start to get his identity back until about half way through. A bit grueling in places, but overall it's a gripping read.
"You." It came out as little more than a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Slave. What's your name?"
The slave looked at him. No, Rodney thought, the slave had been looking at him all the time, even though his head had been bowed. His long dark hair was loose around his neck, and his feet were bare. As Rodney watched, the slave opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Rodney frowned with irritation. "You're supposed to obey me, aren't you?" This was an inconvenience. This was something unplanned. He didn't like inconveniences, not when he was so close to…
"I don't…" The slave seemed to be struggling to produce the words. "I…" He swallowed, and Rodney could see his left fist clenching, tendons pressing against the quickened iron band. "…don't have a name," the slave said. "Each… master--" He said the word with a desperate emphasis. "--has c-called me… something different."
"Like what?" Rodney edged forward, drawn by the alien signature of the chains. Then his fingers brushed the metal, and he caught a sudden glimpse of this man dangling by his wrists from a hook on the ceiling, a lash falling on his back again and again and again. He recoiled, his mouth suddenly dry and foul-tasting.
"'You'," the slave said. "A number. A hound's name. One of my masters..." The other hand clenched, metals chains rippling, whispering more clearly with every moment that passed; Rodney saw cold - excruciating, biting cold - and blood gleaming on the tip of a knife. "He called me… Eagle because…" The slave frowned, his brow wrinkling into deeply-etched accustomed lines. "…I liked to look at… at the… birds flying across the… the sky, before he b-blinded me for a whole lunar cycle with… drugs."
"Oh." Rodney really had no idea what to say. Perhaps it was just that glimpse of metal-borne memory, but the slave looked cold, he thought. On the upper part of his body, he wore only a thin white shirt, open at the neck, showing eyelets where laces once had been.
The chains shifted again. Their voice was almost clear now, and Rodney saw a knife cutting into flesh, and saw a face, a face he knew. "He cut you," Rodney found himself saying. "General Kolya. Last night."
"Marked me." The slave was looking straight ahead. A small drop of blood had soaked through the shirt at his shoulder. "His… initial. They all did - all my… masters."
Rodney wanted to retreat back to his room, to bar the door, to lose himself in phials and quickenings, to hide in his work, to forget, to forget what had brought him here, to this cold cruel city on the far side of the north. "Have you had many?" He swallowed. "Many masters?" What carved letters would he find beneath that shirt? But the chains knew. The chains could show him every drop of blood, every carved inch of flesh, every scream, every scrap of suffering. They had been quickened for this purpose, by somebody who liked to relish pain.
The slave said nothing for a long time. "One there," he said at last, hand moving minutely towards his right shoulder, the chains whispering of things Rodney didn't want to know about. "One there." His other hand shivered upwards, scarred fingers indicating his left shoulder. "Two on the back. One… there," he said, and Rodney saw a silver scar on his breastbone - just the point of a jagged letter emerging from the low neck of his shirt.
Rodney felt sick. He had to keep on talking, he had to, because the chains… "Why--" He scraped his stinging hands across his eyes. "Why do they keep passing you on?"
"Because…" The line between the slave's brows grew deeper, and was that sweat beading on his brow? "Because I didn't submit at first. Because I don't scream."