(no subject)
When Ronon had first been running, he hadn't stopped. He'd gone through numerous planets daily and never stopped. He'd lost weight. His encounters with the Wraith had been close calls that he'd won on sheer fury. Eventually he'd learnt how long he could stay on a planet before he had to move on - it hadn't been exact and it had depended on the planets, he didn't stay if there were people.
He'd used to draw then, killing time on uninhabited planets in the early hours holed up in some defensible position. Patterns in the dirt. Charcoal and mud on cave walls - Satedan glyphs and people and plants. Then he'd learnt more lessons and his time was spent on traps. On things that would slow the Wraith, give him the edge. His life had been stripped to the bare bones of survival and it had always been enough as long as he did survive.
Then he'd come to Atlantis and if his life was more than survival, he still had the Wraith. Still had the fight. Now he didn't, which was why he was crouched, guarded, by the sea's shore, deep in thought. He had an artists pad that the island provided balanced on his knee and smudgey bit of charcoal in the other, he was seriously wondering if he still remembered how to draw. The idea felt alien to him.
But after a few hesitant strokes of charcoal and a lot of discarded paper. It would seem that he did remember - in a halted, stiff, out of practice way. When he had started looking out at the ocean he had thought to draw Atlantis but instead he'd found himself drawing another reminder of home. The charcoal portrait was smudgy and he could think of a dozen ways to improve it but it was recognizable. At least to him. The shifting of sand behind him alerted him to someone approaching and he slammed the pad shut on his drawing of Teyla cradling Torren, dropping the charcoal to the sand so his hands were free - just in case.
He'd used to draw then, killing time on uninhabited planets in the early hours holed up in some defensible position. Patterns in the dirt. Charcoal and mud on cave walls - Satedan glyphs and people and plants. Then he'd learnt more lessons and his time was spent on traps. On things that would slow the Wraith, give him the edge. His life had been stripped to the bare bones of survival and it had always been enough as long as he did survive.
Then he'd come to Atlantis and if his life was more than survival, he still had the Wraith. Still had the fight. Now he didn't, which was why he was crouched, guarded, by the sea's shore, deep in thought. He had an artists pad that the island provided balanced on his knee and smudgey bit of charcoal in the other, he was seriously wondering if he still remembered how to draw. The idea felt alien to him.
But after a few hesitant strokes of charcoal and a lot of discarded paper. It would seem that he did remember - in a halted, stiff, out of practice way. When he had started looking out at the ocean he had thought to draw Atlantis but instead he'd found himself drawing another reminder of home. The charcoal portrait was smudgy and he could think of a dozen ways to improve it but it was recognizable. At least to him. The shifting of sand behind him alerted him to someone approaching and he slammed the pad shut on his drawing of Teyla cradling Torren, dropping the charcoal to the sand so his hands were free - just in case.