Fic: Somewhere to Call Home (SGA, 4/6)
Title: Somewhere to Call Home (4/6)
Author: thefrogg
Beta: anonymous
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3
The sun is high overhead before she wakes, groggy and unsettled. Vague memories of being carried to her bedroll slip away as she rises and silently goes to the stream.
She returns clean and damp, wet hair plastered to her skull, and sets down a cluster of fruit as her contribution toward breakfast.
He doesn't look up from the fire, poking the roasting fish with his knife. "I've seen a lot of Wraith kills. I've been to worlds culled to nothing, I've been back to Sateda." His jaw clenches. "I've never known them to feed on children before."
It's as much of an apology as she's going to get.
~~~
They arrive on Tessinor Kal just in time for a wedding; he watches in rueful amusement as the young women drag her off.
She comes back with a smile of good-natured irritation; her hair's arranged in the local style, half in tiny beaded braids, the rest woven through with bright silk ribbons.
They stay just long enough to congratulate the couple, leaving tiny bottles of spices as tokens.
And a note.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
The gate barely closes behind them before she's pulling ribbons loose, coiling them around the hilt of her sword. She keeps the braids, liking the way the beads slide against her neck.
~~~~
"Teach me to kill Wraith," she asks.
He stumbles, rhythm broken; she lands a blow to his hip before he can recover, and a second to his upper arm. Then he's down, rolling away and back up on his feet.
She squints, sun in her eyes, and raises one bantos rod to shield herself from the glare.
"Killing changes you, little bird." He gives no other warning, sending her on the defensive with a lunge.
She pivots out of the way and winces, pulling her arm free as their rods lock. The sun is in her eyes again, and she lets him back her up, twirling the rods in her hands idly. "I already have," she says softly.
"That's different," he says, ending on a grunt as he attacks again.
She parries and strikes back. "You're teaching me how to kill people, humans like you and me. The Wraith made me a Runner. I never would have--" She breaks off, somersaulting backwards and into a crouch, then lunges beneath his arms and tackles him to the ground.
He has her disarmed and pinned before she can catch her breath, one arm twisted up behind her back.
She rests her cheek in the dirt for a moment before trying to meet his eye over her shoulder. "Nothing we can do will bring back those children. But you can teach me to kill Wraith." Panting, she lets her head drop back to the ground and spits dust and grass from her lips.
And there'll be one more person trying to keep it from happening again. He can hear it, though she'll never give it voice.
~~~
He adds dead and dying worlds to the list: Hoff, Lerran, Firal Dek.
Fighting hand-to-hand against the Wraith is not an option she can afford to take. Instead, he teaches her to set tripwires, rig explosives and traps among the ruins.
Her fingers are useless, the knuckles scraped and swollen, before he's satisfied. But she can manage without error, blindfolded, one-handed and shaking with fatigue.
~~~
The stones are eerily silent in the Irsat mill when the bandits come, the sounds of screams and stunners drowning out the gentle groans of water-stressed wood.
They drop their tools, discarding makeshift weapons for familiar, and race back to the village proper, dodging panicked women and children trying to reach the marginal safety of the inn, the tavern, the village barn.
"Shoot to kill," he yells at her, ducking as a badly-aimed blast goes over his head.
She's never killed before, and can't bring herself to now, this rag-tag bunch of men in mismatched leather and armor, weapons scavenged from who-knows-where. Not until one of them shoves one of the village women face-first into a wall, letting her crumple helplessly to the ground while he scoops her screaming, terrified son over his shoulder.
The shot comes easy then, the toddler's short fall cushioned by the dead body beneath him. The child pays no attention to the bloodstains on his clothes, instead kneeling beside his mother, poking her shoulder and begging her to wake up.
There is no hesitation after that, neither time nor room for regret, and there is nothing left but the bandits and the villagers, her partner and the weapons in her hand.
The bandits aren't expecting resistance; three lie dead in the square, a fourth trying to crawl away on a ruined knee when the leader calls for retreat.
"They went after the children," he says softly, answering her unasked question.
Righteous fury hardens her gaze, steadies her hands as she takes aim; the leader spins around with a hit to the shoulder, goes down hard as her partner's shot finds his thigh, his chest.
The rest are easy pickings, cut down long before they get to the Gate.
~~~
The aftermath is more difficult than she expected, and easier than she'd hoped, the bandits stripped of gear before being dragged downwind to be burned, the villagers assembling in the tavern for a headcount, only to be sent out again to find those gone missing.
The men straggle in from the Gate, from the fields, nursing stunner headaches, bruised or cracked ribs, a broken arm. The woman she'd seen felled wakes dazed and disoriented, her nose broken, a knot swelling on her forehead.
The villagers are lucky, incredibly lucky not to have lost anyone, but this day would live on in their memories, in nightmares; she could not afford to stay and help. It is all she can do to withstand the awful gratitude in their eyes, even half-hidden behind her partner's shoulder, and all they can do to keep the villagers from impoverishing themeselves in thanks.
It's a relief when, late that afternoon, they can retreat to the mill and finish the repairs they'd agreed to in the first place; it's the only work they'll accept payment for.
They sleep uneasily that night, cradled in down-filled mattresses, listening to the cries and whimpers of the children they'd fought to save, the soothing words of parents and siblings trying to hide their own lingering fears.
As if the Wraith aren't enough for them to fear.
~~~
Morning finds them on edge, anxious, unwilling to leave, unable to stay. The mill is repaired, wheel turning smoothly; something far worse is left in disrepair.
He leaves a note behind, Malkon's Gate address, the innkeep's name, in case they should need further help.
She leaves her own, and hopes she doesn't come to regret it.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
They raid what's left of Sateda for supplies hidden away during the resistance.
It leaves him tense and silent, eyes bleak.
She can only wonder what it was like, alive and prosperous; her respect for the dead keeps her from asking.
~~~
The town on Kadera is little more than an outpost for mercenaries, soldiers, and scum. What women are there are hard, warriors in leather and chain, weapons at the ready, or whores worn old before their time.
The men are a mixed lot. Some nod respectfully as they pass, a few saluting in recognition; others watch speculatively, a gleam of greed or lust in their eyes.
The latter group find better things to do after she breaks three fingers on the hand that dares touch her, then steps over the body as he writhes in pain.
Her partner doesn't look back, just leads her to a door at the end of a blind alley.
There's a woman at the desk in the antechamber; tattoos march down the column of her neck as she looks up. "I heard you'd taken-"
"You heard correctly," he cuts the woman off. "I will need marks for her." And he tilts his head back towards her. "I need her on the books."
"Marks?" she asks in confusion.
The stranger laughs, pushing herself to her feet. "Yes, marks." Her fingers spread themselves over her tattoos.
She blinks, glancing between the two. Then, "And if I don't want them?"
"Then you can keep breaking fingers all over the galaxy," he says, and she can hear the laughter beneath the words. "This is easier."
Uncertain, she lets herself be ushered into room down the hall; the stranger takes her by the chin, turning her head this way and that. She's completely unnerved by the time they're finished, her neck still clean of ink.
She leaves no note behind; she wants no memories of the place, much less record of her having been here.
They'll come back for her tattoos when they're ready.
Author: thefrogg
Beta: anonymous
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3
The sun is high overhead before she wakes, groggy and unsettled. Vague memories of being carried to her bedroll slip away as she rises and silently goes to the stream.
She returns clean and damp, wet hair plastered to her skull, and sets down a cluster of fruit as her contribution toward breakfast.
He doesn't look up from the fire, poking the roasting fish with his knife. "I've seen a lot of Wraith kills. I've been to worlds culled to nothing, I've been back to Sateda." His jaw clenches. "I've never known them to feed on children before."
It's as much of an apology as she's going to get.
~~~
They arrive on Tessinor Kal just in time for a wedding; he watches in rueful amusement as the young women drag her off.
She comes back with a smile of good-natured irritation; her hair's arranged in the local style, half in tiny beaded braids, the rest woven through with bright silk ribbons.
They stay just long enough to congratulate the couple, leaving tiny bottles of spices as tokens.
And a note.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
The gate barely closes behind them before she's pulling ribbons loose, coiling them around the hilt of her sword. She keeps the braids, liking the way the beads slide against her neck.
~~~~
"Teach me to kill Wraith," she asks.
He stumbles, rhythm broken; she lands a blow to his hip before he can recover, and a second to his upper arm. Then he's down, rolling away and back up on his feet.
She squints, sun in her eyes, and raises one bantos rod to shield herself from the glare.
"Killing changes you, little bird." He gives no other warning, sending her on the defensive with a lunge.
She pivots out of the way and winces, pulling her arm free as their rods lock. The sun is in her eyes again, and she lets him back her up, twirling the rods in her hands idly. "I already have," she says softly.
"That's different," he says, ending on a grunt as he attacks again.
She parries and strikes back. "You're teaching me how to kill people, humans like you and me. The Wraith made me a Runner. I never would have--" She breaks off, somersaulting backwards and into a crouch, then lunges beneath his arms and tackles him to the ground.
He has her disarmed and pinned before she can catch her breath, one arm twisted up behind her back.
She rests her cheek in the dirt for a moment before trying to meet his eye over her shoulder. "Nothing we can do will bring back those children. But you can teach me to kill Wraith." Panting, she lets her head drop back to the ground and spits dust and grass from her lips.
And there'll be one more person trying to keep it from happening again. He can hear it, though she'll never give it voice.
~~~
He adds dead and dying worlds to the list: Hoff, Lerran, Firal Dek.
Fighting hand-to-hand against the Wraith is not an option she can afford to take. Instead, he teaches her to set tripwires, rig explosives and traps among the ruins.
Her fingers are useless, the knuckles scraped and swollen, before he's satisfied. But she can manage without error, blindfolded, one-handed and shaking with fatigue.
~~~
The stones are eerily silent in the Irsat mill when the bandits come, the sounds of screams and stunners drowning out the gentle groans of water-stressed wood.
They drop their tools, discarding makeshift weapons for familiar, and race back to the village proper, dodging panicked women and children trying to reach the marginal safety of the inn, the tavern, the village barn.
"Shoot to kill," he yells at her, ducking as a badly-aimed blast goes over his head.
She's never killed before, and can't bring herself to now, this rag-tag bunch of men in mismatched leather and armor, weapons scavenged from who-knows-where. Not until one of them shoves one of the village women face-first into a wall, letting her crumple helplessly to the ground while he scoops her screaming, terrified son over his shoulder.
The shot comes easy then, the toddler's short fall cushioned by the dead body beneath him. The child pays no attention to the bloodstains on his clothes, instead kneeling beside his mother, poking her shoulder and begging her to wake up.
There is no hesitation after that, neither time nor room for regret, and there is nothing left but the bandits and the villagers, her partner and the weapons in her hand.
The bandits aren't expecting resistance; three lie dead in the square, a fourth trying to crawl away on a ruined knee when the leader calls for retreat.
"They went after the children," he says softly, answering her unasked question.
Righteous fury hardens her gaze, steadies her hands as she takes aim; the leader spins around with a hit to the shoulder, goes down hard as her partner's shot finds his thigh, his chest.
The rest are easy pickings, cut down long before they get to the Gate.
~~~
The aftermath is more difficult than she expected, and easier than she'd hoped, the bandits stripped of gear before being dragged downwind to be burned, the villagers assembling in the tavern for a headcount, only to be sent out again to find those gone missing.
The men straggle in from the Gate, from the fields, nursing stunner headaches, bruised or cracked ribs, a broken arm. The woman she'd seen felled wakes dazed and disoriented, her nose broken, a knot swelling on her forehead.
The villagers are lucky, incredibly lucky not to have lost anyone, but this day would live on in their memories, in nightmares; she could not afford to stay and help. It is all she can do to withstand the awful gratitude in their eyes, even half-hidden behind her partner's shoulder, and all they can do to keep the villagers from impoverishing themeselves in thanks.
It's a relief when, late that afternoon, they can retreat to the mill and finish the repairs they'd agreed to in the first place; it's the only work they'll accept payment for.
They sleep uneasily that night, cradled in down-filled mattresses, listening to the cries and whimpers of the children they'd fought to save, the soothing words of parents and siblings trying to hide their own lingering fears.
As if the Wraith aren't enough for them to fear.
~~~
Morning finds them on edge, anxious, unwilling to leave, unable to stay. The mill is repaired, wheel turning smoothly; something far worse is left in disrepair.
He leaves a note behind, Malkon's Gate address, the innkeep's name, in case they should need further help.
She leaves her own, and hopes she doesn't come to regret it.
I am a Runner. I was told you can help me.
~~~
They raid what's left of Sateda for supplies hidden away during the resistance.
It leaves him tense and silent, eyes bleak.
She can only wonder what it was like, alive and prosperous; her respect for the dead keeps her from asking.
~~~
The town on Kadera is little more than an outpost for mercenaries, soldiers, and scum. What women are there are hard, warriors in leather and chain, weapons at the ready, or whores worn old before their time.
The men are a mixed lot. Some nod respectfully as they pass, a few saluting in recognition; others watch speculatively, a gleam of greed or lust in their eyes.
The latter group find better things to do after she breaks three fingers on the hand that dares touch her, then steps over the body as he writhes in pain.
Her partner doesn't look back, just leads her to a door at the end of a blind alley.
There's a woman at the desk in the antechamber; tattoos march down the column of her neck as she looks up. "I heard you'd taken-"
"You heard correctly," he cuts the woman off. "I will need marks for her." And he tilts his head back towards her. "I need her on the books."
"Marks?" she asks in confusion.
The stranger laughs, pushing herself to her feet. "Yes, marks." Her fingers spread themselves over her tattoos.
She blinks, glancing between the two. Then, "And if I don't want them?"
"Then you can keep breaking fingers all over the galaxy," he says, and she can hear the laughter beneath the words. "This is easier."
Uncertain, she lets herself be ushered into room down the hall; the stranger takes her by the chin, turning her head this way and that. She's completely unnerved by the time they're finished, her neck still clean of ink.
She leaves no note behind; she wants no memories of the place, much less record of her having been here.
They'll come back for her tattoos when they're ready.