SGA Fic - The Long Miles Home Pt. 1
Title: The Long Miles Home
Rating: PG-13
Characters: John, Ronon, Teyla, Rodney
Warnings: Violence, blood
Summary: A civil war, an imprisoned team, and an undercover rescue while all ready injured. But that's only the start of John's problems. Written for ladyniko for the sheppard_hc holiday fic exchange. Prompt at the end of the story. Beta'd by the wonderful wildcat88.
The Long Miles Home
“Sheppard!”
John inhaled, lungs expanding in a chest that felt too tight.
“Sheppard!”
He tried to open his eyes, managed a slit but saw only light the color of late afternoon, misty with spiraling dust motes.
He croaked, “Ronon?” It came out something like, “Rn,” cut short by his dried throat sticking together. A harsh cough shook him with pain, shrinking his chest, and he wished he could detach his head before it exploded.
“Sheppard!”
Not Ronon then. John groaned, his sluggish brain slowly putting faces to the voice.
“Colonel Sheppard!” Not Rodney, and not Teyla. Rodney wasn't so formal when panicked, and Teyla's voice wasn't that deep. John forced his eyes back open only to slam them shut against a rain of dust and debris. He heard clattering, the groan of wood and shriek of metal being shifted. When the noise stopped and he opened his eyes, it was to the silhouette of a stranger.
---------------------
John awoke, blinking up at an overcast sky, the same sky that had been threatening rain for the past two days. A drop of cold water hit his eye. The clouds were about to make due on their promise. About damn time. John preferred absolutes, even if it meant muddy roads and soaked clothes. Either it rains or it doesn't, either something happens or it doesn't; no whispers, no tip-toeing, no games. If it was going to happen, then let it happen. Life was easier when he knew exactly what he was up against. He was sick and tired of not knowing.
Someone nudged him in his hip and he tore his eyes from the sky, rolling them to Gilen standing over him, staring down and smiling.
“Sleep well, Sheppard?” Gilen asked.
“Told you,” John said, rubbing the grit and water from his eyes. “Slept in worse.” The ground was cold at his back, the sky chilling his front even with a thin blanket covering him, and his body throbbed with injuries. But at least he was still dry for however much longer that lasted.
Gilen chuffed, then stretched out his hand. John took it, letting the other man pull him to his feet. The throb ratcheted up to a pulse, like being pummeled with small wool-covered hammers. It was a far cry from the knife blade and fire that had been his body a week ago, after Gilen had pulled him from the ruins of the town hall, but it still made for a bad night's sleep and a stiff body in the morning. John no longer cried out when he had to get up; he did grunt and occasionally moan.
With a light clap on the back Gilen steered John to the nearest fire to, as Gilen liked to put it, 'thaw John's old bones.' It was a running joke, inspired by John's pained shuffling, that Gilen refused to drop. Gilen was the same age as John, same height and build too, but his hair and beard were sandy verging on red and his eyes pale green. He also smiled too much. Sometimes amused, sometimes wistful, sometimes cynical. There was rarely a time when Gilen's mouth wasn't curled like a Cheshire Cat and it freaked John out - like the world was Gilen's private joke.
John squeezed into the cluster of soldiers young and old sharing the heat of the fire and their own bodies, everyone too stiff and cold for conversation. They wore blue coats like long coats that came to the knees, heavy and probably a hell of a lot warmer than John's ragged brown farmer's jacket, shirt and trousers (currently being held up by a belt of rope). Between the heat from the fire and the people around him, the aches toned themselves back down to a throb and John was able to straighten his body a little more.
The day was crisp but going on moist now that the rain was finally starting to fall. Fires were scattered throughout the muddy little clearing, blue-coated bodies circled around them, warming themselves or waiting for food, adding to the air the smell of smoke, sweat and boiling meat. Bowls were soon handed around, followed by young cadets lugging the cooking pots. As had been the story of John's life since being drafted as the wagon driver for this platoon, he received last.
Which meant no stew for him - supplies were going low. Only stale bread and a fist-sized chunk of crumbling cheese that smelled like feet made his breakfast. It was actually a pretty good deal. The number one rule of the army of the Phalasian Sovereignty was that soldiers came first. When food was scarce and belts tightened, civilians ate last. But the soldiers weren't cruel, and Gilen always made sure John had something in his gut before they headed off.
The sky opened up, pelting drops giving it up for a downpour already soaking through John's clothes before he could dig his oiled cloak from the wagon. When marching across country, nature was a friend and an enemy, dousing the fires and saving the men time that would have been wasted putting them out, but slicking up the dirt roads.
The men surrounded the wagon, huddling in their cloaks. John climbed into the driver's seat next to Gilen. It took John five snaps of the reins to get the damn lumbering durs moving. Durs had to be the worse pack animals in existence, the love child of an ox and an iguana, all scaly gray skin and stumpy legs. Two horns curled from its flat skull like a ram's head while two more jutted out from under the jaw. John couldn't call it a stupid beast (though he did anyway just for spite) but, damn it, the thing was stubborn to make a mule look docile. Durs only ever cooperated with those they “liked,” and even then it was fifty/fifty they would obey. John had had to fatten the thing up for over three days with various treats just to get it to like him enough for him to get it to move forward. Stopping it was still an issue. But John's choices had either been to drive the durs or slip into a blue coat and fight for the cause. A durs was a pain in the ass, but it was a safer bet than passing as a blue coat. The green coats - the rebel forces, John called them - shot blue coats. They didn't shoot civilians, especially durs drivers. Durs were the all-terrain vehicles of the animal kingdom, able to haul truckloads of supplies over any type of land. But because they played favorites, durs drivers were regarded as practically sacred.
But not religiously.
The rain was like a solid silver curtain, making the soldiers ahead a dark blue blur. If he squinted, John could almost make out the general outline of Commander Cores and the shorter Captain Felyf, as well as the tree line that marked the edge of the clearing.
“So how much longer, now?” John asked above the rain's pounding.
Gilen's head angled enough for John to see that his smile had turned amused.
“You're like a child, Sheppard. Do you know that?”
John snorted. “Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we yet?”
Gilen chuckled. “Three more days, give or take. Four depending on how bad the roads get. Practice some patience.”
John scoffed. He angled his head back at Gilen, prickling at the guy's eternal joviality. “I'm really glad you didn't just tell me to stay positive.”
Gilen gave him an odd look. “I said practice patience. Not quite the same thing, I would think.”
John shrugged, pain beating through his shoulder making him wince. “Inside joke,” he grunted. He made a mental note never to tell Rodney to stay positive again.
“They are fine,” Gilen said. “I told you. Worrying will do nothing but set you back. You must trust me, please.”
John said nothing, hunching against the rain and the juddering of the wagon wreaking havoc on his ribs, back, hip and shoulder. He would have liked to trust Gilen for the simple fact that Gilen had saved his life - pulled him from the wreckage of the bombed town hall, tended his injuries, and put John in a position to seek out his team. He wanted to trust Gilen, had every reason to, except that Gilen was a soldier dressed in the coat of the guys who took John's team.
He was also a spy playing for the other side. The guy was a professional liar, and that made him hard to trust.
The platoon entered the forest, naked trees not doing squat against the rain. The road had turned quickly to mud that John could hear sucking against slogging boots, creaking wheels and the durs' stunted legs. It made the wagon twice as juddering (John's kingdom for some shocks), and John's aches became pains provoking him to grunt and drive the wagon one handed while the other hand clutched his ribs.
“The durs' momentum is good,” Gilen said. He slipped a small canteen from his cloak and held it out to John. “I'll help if we need to make a sudden stop but it is unlikely. So drink.”
John pushed it away. “I'm good.”
“John...”
“I'm not there, yet,” John said through gritted teeth. “Muddy roads can be dangerous. I need to be alert for as long as possible.”
Which probably wouldn't be for much longer. Even John's pain tolerance had its limits and a wagon ride over rough terrain tested those limits. Two days ago, navigating through a field full of hidden rocks had been a lesson in agony that had left him unable to eat. But he didn't trust these roads or what might lie ahead. He would take his chances with the pain for however long he could stand it.
Gilen relented with a sigh, a shake of his head and that relentless smile, this time rueful.
It pissed John off but he managed not to say anything. If he could endure the pain he could endure Gilen's cryptic position in the grand scheme of this war and John's mission.
John had already asked, more than once, why Gilen was helping him. The first time it had been a tad ungrateful, “Why don't you just turn me over to your damn people, you son of a bitch!” But he'd been pained, paranoid, delirious and so an accusing bastard within his rights.
When in less pain and no longer delirious, John had asked, “Why'd you save me?”
Gilen, sitting by the pallet of the only building not destroyed beyond use, cleaning John's many cuts, smiled a smile that betrayed nothing and said as matter-of-fact as though it should have been obvious, “I'm not a heartless curd wallower.” Whatever a curd wallower was. Then he added, “I tire of war.”
And maybe Gilen was tired. John couldn't say. He'd been tired, too: tired of losing people to the point that he had disobeyed orders. But John had also been tired and still did what he felt needed to be done; sometimes right, sometimes a big damn mistake, sometimes a bone deep regret that tainted his dreams and twisted his gut. But if he thought it for the best of the expedition and helping his people, then he did it. Tired didn't really mean much.
John and his team had come to this world on an invitation from some chancellor to talk trade. “There is technology on our world,” the chancellor had said, “and we wish to trade technology.” Phalasia was protected by a shield much like the one on Kid world but with a global reach powered by several ZPMs. The Chancellor and his entourage had allowed Rodney time enough to learn what he could, to whet Atlantis' curiosity and hope, before kidnapping John and his team to use as ransom to gain weapons.
Phalasia also had a shield on their 'gate, and they knew how to use it. But that was about as techno savvy as they got, as it turned out. Really, John's first clue should have been the muskets and cannons (even if the muskets were a pretty good shot). One would think a techno savvy world would have had better than muskets and cannons.
John's team had been taken elsewhere, collateral to use against John. John was kept locked up in the dungeon of the town hall belonging to a town four miles from the 'gate but within reach of the chancellor. Four days of the chancellor raging against Atlantis' reply of “we don't negotiate with terrorists” later and the town was leveled by rebels. They had gotten wind of the Lanteans with the cool weapons thanks to Gilen, but with three of the team gone and one presumed dead, the rebels had moved on.
Gilen had told John that he saw no point in holding John and his team as ransom for the same weapons since it had gotten the Sovereignty nowhere. And maybe he was telling the truth, but John felt skepticism the safer game plan.
Time was hazy, almost nonexistent. John's pain and the rain hiding the sun made the day feel hours longer, the road a ribbon of eternity stretching into a forest that wasn't going to end. John was awake but still started with a jolt when Gilen bumped his shoulder with his own and told him to stop. He pulled back hard on the reins, the durs grunting and stomping, threatening to bolt.
“Easy, Sheppard,” Gilen muttered, and it was with some satisfaction that for a moment he wasn't smiling. When the durs finally calmed, both John and Gilen exhaled in relief.
It was premature. The rain had leveled out enough for John to see Captain Felyf slogging with heated purpose straight toward them.
“You keep that bug-bit beast under control, you hear me!” he barked. “You handle it or I string you up to the nearest tree for the animals to eat!”
“Sorry, Captain. Won't happen again,” Gilen said, drawing Felyf's volatile gaze on him.
“Was I talking to you, Fourth Captain? Was I?”
Gilen hopped from the wagon, towering over the medium Captain and only able to look straight ahead or give Felyf another reason to be pissed. You never look down at the captain, but then the list of what you didn't do when Felyf was around could have paved a mile of the muddy road.
“No, Captain. Apologies, sir.”
“Right,” Felyf sneered as though he didn't buy the submission. He shifted his gaze back to John. “You're a waste of food, you know that?”
“Leave off him,” Commander Cores called, dragging himself up the ranks. He was the opposite of Felyf in every way: tall, narrow, fair-hair thinning where as Felyf's hair and beard looked like birds had tried to build a nest out of it. Cores was pale as a fish's belly, his shoulders stooped and the bones of his face sharp enough to cut yourself on. But when he spoke, his soldiers listened. The guy could be a walking corpse and still earn respect. He practically was a walking corpse, coughing into his hand sporadically and to the point of collapse, only to wave off the ones trying to help him while he acted like the moment of weakness never happened. John didn't know what was wrong with the guy because no one liked to talk about it, and Gilen was just as much a newbie to the platoon as John so he didn't have a clue.
“Organize Cadets Asleena, Joraf, Kels and Mereen to distribute food,” Cores said on passing Felyf. Cores liked to do head counts because he wasn't the only one pretending to be hale and healthy.
“How fair you, Mr. Sheppard?” Cores asked when he had made his way around the wagon.
“Been better,” John admitted.
Cores inclined his head, looking at John like the poor victim of a rebel attack he was and the poor helpless citizen he was pretending to be. John had the feeling that Cores had hired him just as much out of pity as necessity. There had been farms near that town, any one of which could have harbored more experienced durs drivers.
“Injured men make poor drivers,” Felyf called. “That thing's gonna stampede us one of these days.”
Cores rolled his eyes and moved on. Some of the cadets laughed softly behind their hands, and a few eyed the durs warily. Meat and bread was handed around, John receiving the smaller portion. The bread was soggy from the rain, the meat tough and a literal pain to chew, but John's stomach almost imploded on itself in joy.
“Take the damn drink,” Gilen whispered to him when it was time to move on. “Stop sending a bug up Felyf's ass; it's making us all miserable.”
John relented with a derisive snort, grabbing the flask of drugged water from Gilen's hand. They climbed back into the wagon and John snapped the reins. The durs lurched forward for about two feet before stopping with an annoyed bellow, and no amount of snapping could get it going. So much for not sending a bug up Felyf's ass; the man in question stomped his way over, cursing a blue streak in Phalasian.
“Looks like the wagon's stuck,” someone said. It took most of the platoon to heave their shoulders into the wagon and the damn thing still wouldn't move.
“Roll it,” John said, whacking the durs' hide with the reins. “Back and forth.”
“Stuff it, driver!” Felyf bellowed.
“Look, you're not getting anywhere as it is. Just roll the thing,” John bellowed back. It earned Felyf's fist to his jaw and a repeat to stuff it. That brought Cores over, who, if he wasn't looking miserable before, looked ready to drop now. He chewed Felyf a new one, told him to stuff it himself and for the love of the Ancestors to listen for once. The cadets heaved the wagon, letting it roll back, heaved it forward again, back and forth until the wagon rolled from the mud with a sucking wet plop. They marched on.
“You okay, John?” Gilen asked, actually frowning.
John rubbed his jaw, working it, feeling little more than the pull of tender muscles. The water was kicking in. “I'll live.”
They slopped on into the evening, until the cadet sent on ahead had scouted a suitable clearing. It wasn't much, mostly a space where the trees weren't clustered so close together. There would be no fires tonight to keep warm and dry, only useless oiled cloaks, clammy bodies and more bread and meat. Felyf, still feeling pissy, ordered that there was to be no food for the driver.
“We're running too low as is,” he said. Gilen slipped John a crust of bread, anyway. Several cadets may have witnessed it but didn't say anything.
The night dragged on old and miserable, John's aches crawling back quick and vindictive, taut muscles pulling on cracked bones and his shivering making it worse. He lay shivering in the mud wrapped in his oiled blanket, his clothes clinging to his chilled and itchy skin. He drifted off as much as was possible to the whispers and coughs of the platoon. By morning, he was so damn stiff he could only move in increments even with Gilen's help. He really did feel like an old man, now. Worse than an old man, he felt like he'd been wraith sucked, every joint locked and not wanting to move, his spine fused, his ribs like they had been re-broken. Crap, he hoped his team wasn't going through the same.
The wagon had to be rolled again, the ground so sopping the cadets had to keep their shoulders to the wagon bed even when the wagon was moving. Once on the road, both durs and wagon found their momentum, giving the poor kids a break.
“I apologize this is not as easy a journey as I had hoped it would be,” Gilen said, his smile small. “Especially with your injuries.”
John shrugged. “Been through worse.”
Gilen arched an eyebrow at him. The week Gilen had tended to him, John hadn't exactly been talkative except when he wanted to assess his situation and plan out how he was going to rescue his team.
“I once dragged a dying buddy of mine through a desert full of hostiles with no water,” John went on.
Gilen's other eyebrow joined the first.
“Was tied up by a bunch of escaped convicts. Once had to walk through one hell of a sandstorm. And being buried alive in a collapsed building? Been there, done that.”
“Had to traverse war torn countryside with men that could be shot at any moment?” Gilen asked.
John chuckled dryly. “Compared to what my team and I have gone through to save each other's asses - I won't call this a cake walk but... let's just say I'm used to it.”
“Your team means a great deal to you.”
The durs grunted, tossing its head. John snapped the rains against its hide. “Hell yes they do.”
The rain stayed with them, sometimes easing into a drizzle, sometimes a light mist that lulled them into a false sense of relief thinking it was about to let up, only to pour thick and malicious. Mother Nature was being a bit of a witch on this planet. The rain didn't stop until what ended up being day three of their journey, extended when Commander Cores stumbled more and more and sick cadets started to drop. Room had to be made for them in the wagon bed, the durs extra stubborn thanks to the extra weight. John could not wait for the day when he could wash his hands of the damn animal.
But they arrived. The road turned, the forest fell back and a field opened up crawling with soldiers in blue coats, some on foot, some riding two-legged animals like a cross between a monkey and an allosaurus and bigger than a draft horse. There were fires, heavy with smoke from the wet wood but warm and welcoming even from a distance. There were also other wagons, other durs and durs drivers sitting on the ground or the buckboards, displaced, unhappy and no doubt wishing they'd be paid so they could leave. A lot of them were looking hunger pinched, and John was pretty sure he didn't look any different.
John's heart pounded and he leaned in toward Gilen. “Where's the prison camp?”
“Patience, John,” Gilen whispered back. “They hold the prisoners in the center of camp but your friends they might be keeping elsewhere for safety.” He had explained that a permanent location for prison camps was no longer viable - too easy a target for the rebels - and that troops had taken to transferring their prisoners from camp to camp, making them work to earn their keep and exhaust them to the point of collapse, ensuring no attempts at escape.
It was hard to maintain the role of subservient durs driver. John's body quivered, his heart hammered, the need to find his team, to see that they were alive and all right, so overwhelming it hurt. He took a swallow from the flask and several deep breaths to regain control. He steered the wagon to where the platoon was assigned to camp, held the durs in check as the wagon was unloaded, then after, saw to the durs' needs. Scattered throughout the camp were wagons full of feed - rotten vegetables and wet straw that was no never mind to a durs; the lizard-oxes were like vegetarian vultures. John unharnessed the durs while it ate, rubbed it down like Gilen had shown him, and slathered mud where the straps had rubbed the scaly skin smooth. As he worked, his eyes wandered the camp, searching.
After he tethered the durs to a hook hammered into a stump (plenty to choose from throughout the camp) John searched for Gilen and found him warming his hands at one of the many fire pits. It took everything John had to join Gilen rather than yank him away and demand that he lead him to his team.
“All done, sir,” John said, rubbing his hands, unable to feel his fingers thanks to the damn medicine still lingering in his bloodstream.
Gilen nodded. “Well done, Mr. Sheppard. Now, come with me.” He led the way from the pit through the camp, John keeping a foot of distance behind. He may have been playing the part of the civilian but even civilians had to show respect. The more respect, Gilen had said, the better the pay (to which Gilen later admitted was only a rumor to ensure better cooperation).
“Please tell me you're taking me to them,” John said under his breath. “Because I'm running a little low on patience.”
“Then rejoice, your patience is being rewarded,” Gilen said. “But you'd best covet what little of it you still have. I promised they'd be cared for but I can't promise what state you will find them in.”
“I would think 'cared for' implies alive and unharmed,” John grunted.
“It does. Normally it does. But supplies are running low with no word yet from the supply trains and rumor travels faster than written orders. If word has reached the generals that the chancellor is dead, they may have stopped regarding your compatriots as a priority.”
John felt like his heart was going to beat its way out of his chest. With each camp they cut through devoid of makeshift prisons, the tighter his muscles coiled. But where his patience dwindled his self-control made up for it, his body acting on years of having to put up with waiting, not knowing, life and death hanging by a thread. There was a desire in John to shove past Gilen and run the rest of the way, yet he didn't act on it, the ability not to act on it as second nature to him as breathing.
So when they finally arrived at the make-shift prison, his only reaction was to blink. The prison was more like a pen of hastily carved stakes supporting coils of barbed wire, with more of the same dividing the pen into sections. The soldiers and civilians inside sat beneath lean-tos made of sticks and ragged cloth, their faces and hands filthy, their eyes empty.
John's team was on the other side. When John saw them, he double-blinked, swallowed and clenched his fists until they shook.
“Guess they're not regarding them as a priority anymore,” he spat.
Gilen, his smile so insufferable that John wanted to knock it from his face, replied, “Believe me when I say it could be worse.”
“Worse!” John snarled, prompting a frown and shush from Gilen. John hissed. “I don't see the rest of your prisoners chained up like that.”
Like the others, Ronon, Rodney and Teyla were huddled under a lean-to. Unlike the others, their wrists were manacled. And if chains weren't bad enough, between the cuffs of the manacles was a thin bar severely limiting his team's range of motion.
“Who is overseeing the offworld prisoners?” Gilen called. The young cadet stationed on the right side of the tangled configuration of wood and wire that must have been the gate stiffened and saluted - his fist thumping into his chest.
“Tenth Captain Hokins at your service, sir. Fourth Captain Murls sees to the prison but I'm in charge of these three.”
“In charge no longer,” Gilen said, pulling a sheaf of dirty papers from inside his coat. “Last orders from the Chancellor before his death. I am to see to the prisoners from here on in.” Which may or may not have been a lie, depending on how one looked at it. The documents were forged - a Gilen specialty, Gilen had said with his most smug smile. But the chancellor had planned to send one of his trusted men to escort both John and his team to a more secure location once the chancellor was finished with John. Then came the attack on the town and the rest was moot.
Hokins took the papers, read them over and, John was sure, sagged in relief. He cleared his throat as though fighting the need to express his relief.
“Excellent, sir. They haven't been too much trouble but I should warn you that they don't make life easy. We've taken to using the level three restraints, as you can see.”
“And are they well?” Gilen asked. “Any illnesses, injuries?”
The captain scratched the side of his scruffy head. “They're well enough. The restraints make it difficult to eat but they ain't starving.”
Gilen nodded. “Good to hear. But my orders are to keep them in the best possible of health.” He snapped his fingers and John stepped forward. “I am going to have Mr. Sheppard here personally see to their feeding.”
Ronon's head lifted like a dog perking up at the sound of a can opener. John looked at him, Ronon looked back and if John thought himself decently skilled at self control it was nothing compared to Ronon's restraint. But that was the thing about Ronon, you had to know what to look for; the twitch in the corner of his lips, the change in his eyes from ice to steel, the bend of his head like a man who knows change is coming and coming soon. He nudged Rodney.
Rodney wasn't quite so subtle, his eyes going wide and his mouth with them until Ronon elbowed him harder. Rodney's protest alerted Teyla who looked from Ronon to Rodney then to John. Where Ronon was not obvious and Rodney too obvious, Teyla was in between. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and her shoulders sagged as though freed from a heavy burden.
John had seen his team, his team had seen him. So close...
“When is their next meal?” Gilen asked.
“In about an hour, sir.”
But still so far.
An hour. One damn hour. After enduring days of having not seen his team, he could handle one more hour.
John was sure it was the longest hour of his life, following Gilen to deliver the orders to Captain Murls, having to put his back to his team. Then standing within sight of the prison as he warmed his still-numb hands by the fire.
“Are you satisfied, John?” Gilen asked.
John glared at him. “Hell. No.”
For a moment, Gilen's features softened. “It's the best I can do, John. My say only goes so far. I would have the restraints removed but that would also remove your chance to speak with them. The guards fear they will attack any who get too near if not restrained.”
John worked his jaw. Damned if you do, damned if you don't - let them suffer so he could talk to them, remove their suffering and their means of communication. John really hated this planet.
But as sluggish as the hour tried to pass, pass it did. Prison food was a stew made from leftovers lugged around in large cauldrons and ladled through the wire into crude wooden bowls. A bell announced the eating hour and like frantic sheep to fresh grass the prisoners gathered at the fence, skinny arms reaching through the wire and not giving a damn if all the jostling earned them a couple of nicks.
John was given a smaller pot to carry, the bowls already inside the pen. Two guards followed John but hung back just inside the gate, distanced enough away for a clean shot if anyone tried anything, not too close that John would be overheard if he talked quietly enough.
There was only one bowl to be found sitting in the mud, and John had been told to feed the prisoners only until the bowl was empty; no more, no less. He spooned in as much stew as he could, then knelt in front of his team, starting with Teyla.
“John, it is good to see you,” Teyla said in one breath before taking the offered spoon.
“Your timing is impeccable as always,” hissed Rodney with a veneer of annoyance that wasn't fooling anyone. “So when are we getting out of-”
John shoved the spoon into Rodney's mouth. “Damn it, McKay, keep it down,” he snapped. He shifted over to Ronon, feeling the cold moisture seep through the knees of his pants to his skin. “I think it pretty obvious I don't have a lot of time so just listen. Things are kind of complicated right now. As much as I would love to slip through the dead of night and just up and free you guys, it isn't going to be that simple.”
“But there's a plan,” Ronon said after swallowing.
“Yeah,” John said, gut twisting, “there is.” He wasn't going to say anything about the plan hedging on a guy who may or may not have a lot of agendas up his sleeve. “Bad news is, it's going to take a while to happen. Until then, we're all going to have to sit tight.”
“Easy for you to say,” Rodney grouched. He held up his arms. “Ever try eating with something like this on your wrists? It's impossible!”
John shoved the spoon into Rodney's mouth. “And so I'm spoon feeding you. Count your blessings, Rodney. Apparently, it could be worse.” He scooted back to Teyla.
Rodney paled. “How - how worse?”
“Let's hope we never find out,” John said. “But, hey be pos-- I mean, at least we're all together to make a break for it together, right?” Just when he was about to scoot down the line back to Rodney, the brush of slender fingers over his knee stopped him and he looked at Teyla.
“We thought--” Teyla began, her eyes large and shimmering. “We heard... there was an attack? We had feared the worst.”
John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yeah, well.” He smiled, trying to make it sincere and comforting. “One last thing to be afraid of.” He was sure he'd failed. But as if life couldn't make him miserable enough, the medicine wore off, and by the time the bowl was down to the last couple of spoonfuls every minor movement became a reason for his injuries to complain. He tried his best to cover it up, but couldn't help a couple of extra grunts.
It was inevitable; it didn't go unnoticed.
“John?” Teyla pressed, while John could feel the weight of Ronon's and Rodney's stares.
“I'm fine,” John said, stuffing the last shallow spoonful into Rodney's mouth just as he opened it to say something. It was a struggle to scrabble to his feet, causing his ribs to twinge and forcing another pained grunt from his throat.
“Sheppard,” Ronon said with force.
“Gotta go,” John said. “Kick at me.”
Rodney squawked. “What! Kick you? You look ready to drop and you want us to kick you?”
“At me, McKay,” John snarled. “I want Ronon to kick at me. Let's not give the twitchy guards a reason to think you like me for no good reason.”
Ronon complied, snapping one leg in John's general direction and adding a, “Get the hell away from us!” for good measure. John made sure to position himself in front of Ronon when it happened. He heard guns cock, but relaxed when they didn't fire.
“See you guys at breakfast,” he whispered, and scuttled off with his head bowed.
Not before he heard Teyla whisper back, “Be well, John.”
-------------------------
“When, Gilen? And don't even tell me to practice patience.”
Gilen looked at the overcast sky going dark with the coming evening, as though he could see the position of the setting sun through the clouds.
“Then I won't,” Gilen said, curl to his lips, everything so damn amusing. John thumped his fists against his thighs to keep from decking Gilen.
Two days and the promised prison convoy meant to transport John's team to a secure location hadn't come. Neither had the supply wagons. Food was going low and the prison stew was a little thinner each time it was dished up.
The plan - what was supposed to be the plan - was to let the convoy take John's team, wait until they were a mile from the camp then slip in during the night when the guards would be too exhausted to pay complete attention, free his team then haul ass through the woods back to the 'gate. They would be dependent on two rifles and Gilen's knowledge of the terrain.
John hated the plan, but he was a man between a rock and a hard place, and so far he had yet to come up with anything better. Neither could his team. So Gilen's iffy plan it had to be.
Captain Felyf had also taken a “special” interest in John. Gilen tried to placate the situation by saying Felyf took an interest in anyone who wasn't wearing a blue coat but, damn it, John didn't need this crap. He could see Felyf now, wandering out from around the other side of the prison pen, always checking and rechecking the wire. When he spotted Gilen and John loitering by a fire pit next to one of the cooking pits, he stared at them while continuing on.
“War laughs at plans,” Gilen said. “When they say a convoy is to come in five days, then expect to see it in five weeks.”
John clenched and unclenched his fingers that the fire refused to warm. “Then we need a new plan.”
“Granted. But believe me, our current plan is as good as it is going to get. I will not tell you to have patience, John. But do think of it this way - the longer the wait, the more you will heal.”
John chuckled caustically. “Yeah, at the rate I'm going I doubt five days or weeks will make a difference.” The aches and pains refused to change for better or worse, leaving him perpetually hunched. Toss in the cold air and biting winds and it was a miracle he could move. Every night he had to sleep under the influence of medicine, and every morning was reliant on Gilan's help to get him to his feet and get him moving. John's rations had been cut back to two “snacks” a day. He had forgotten what it was like to be full.
But he could deal with hunger. His chief concern was McKay, who hadn't been looking too good last meal time.
“What is it like, John?” Gilen said.
John, startled by the non sequitur, muttered, “Huh?”
“Out there.” Gilen gestured vaguely. “Beyond all this.”
It took a moment to translate, but John eventually got it. He looked around making sure no one was within earshot. With this pit's fire dying and the cadets having moved on to better fires, it was just John and Gilen.
“Depends on where you go,” John said. “For the most part, I guess you could say it's a lot of... sporadic survival. The Wraith make life unpredictable. But you get used to it, I guess.”
“Are there worlds untouched by them? Worlds like ours?”
“Yeah. Though I wouldn't really recommend them.” John watched as Felyf came around for his second circuit. “Just because a world can't be touched doesn't mean it's all coffee and cupcakes. Your world is pretty much proof of that.”
“Mmm, yes,” Gilen said. “But your world--”
“Not any safer,” John said. A hell of a lot safer than this world, yes, but like John was going to say that out loud.
The dinner bell rang and John left to go feed his team. The stew was mostly water, today, the meat and vegetable bits barely visible. John, figuring as much, had already prepared. After feeding Teyla, he scooted over to Rodney and shoved a small chunk of soaked bread into his mouth.
“Chew and swallow fast,” John whispered. Rodney did gratefully, if sluggishly. He was looking pale, tired but scared, and even restrained his hands still shook. “Sorry I couldn't get more for the rest of you guys.”
“It is all right, John,” Teyla whispered back.
“Better than nothing, right?” Rodney said with a weak and twitchy smile, while his eyes begged, 'how much longer?' John could only silently apologize.
Another two days came and went, the supply wagons still absent, and prison food was cut. There was only breakfast and dinner, now. John remedied this as best he could by using his own dinner of bread and jerky.
“You're going to get caught doing this,” Rodney said.
“Haven't yet.” Which may have been the wrong thing to say.
Ronon, going rigid, hissed, “Sheppard!” Jerking his chin imperceptibly in the direction behind John. He turned, but too late when he was yanked to his feet and out of the pen by his collar. He was thrown to the muddy ground, the remains of the stew splashing all over a pair of dirty boots planted inches from John's face.
John looked up at Felyf glaring down at him.
“Search him,” Felyf said. Hands patted John roughly down.
Gilen, standing by Felyf and looking frantic, tossed up his hands. “I told you, we're under orders to keep them healthy. They have vital information--” But his words landed on deaf ears when whoever was frisking John pulled the jerky he hadn't managed to give McKay from his pocket.
Felyf snatched it from the cadet, studying it with a triumphant smile. He looked down at John like a cat would a cornered mouse.
“I knew it,” he said. His boot slammed into John's head. John's world went dark.
To Part 2...
Rating: PG-13
Characters: John, Ronon, Teyla, Rodney
Warnings: Violence, blood
Summary: A civil war, an imprisoned team, and an undercover rescue while all ready injured. But that's only the start of John's problems. Written for ladyniko for the sheppard_hc holiday fic exchange. Prompt at the end of the story. Beta'd by the wonderful wildcat88.
The Long Miles Home
“Sheppard!”
John inhaled, lungs expanding in a chest that felt too tight.
“Sheppard!”
He tried to open his eyes, managed a slit but saw only light the color of late afternoon, misty with spiraling dust motes.
He croaked, “Ronon?” It came out something like, “Rn,” cut short by his dried throat sticking together. A harsh cough shook him with pain, shrinking his chest, and he wished he could detach his head before it exploded.
“Sheppard!”
Not Ronon then. John groaned, his sluggish brain slowly putting faces to the voice.
“Colonel Sheppard!” Not Rodney, and not Teyla. Rodney wasn't so formal when panicked, and Teyla's voice wasn't that deep. John forced his eyes back open only to slam them shut against a rain of dust and debris. He heard clattering, the groan of wood and shriek of metal being shifted. When the noise stopped and he opened his eyes, it was to the silhouette of a stranger.
---------------------
John awoke, blinking up at an overcast sky, the same sky that had been threatening rain for the past two days. A drop of cold water hit his eye. The clouds were about to make due on their promise. About damn time. John preferred absolutes, even if it meant muddy roads and soaked clothes. Either it rains or it doesn't, either something happens or it doesn't; no whispers, no tip-toeing, no games. If it was going to happen, then let it happen. Life was easier when he knew exactly what he was up against. He was sick and tired of not knowing.
Someone nudged him in his hip and he tore his eyes from the sky, rolling them to Gilen standing over him, staring down and smiling.
“Sleep well, Sheppard?” Gilen asked.
“Told you,” John said, rubbing the grit and water from his eyes. “Slept in worse.” The ground was cold at his back, the sky chilling his front even with a thin blanket covering him, and his body throbbed with injuries. But at least he was still dry for however much longer that lasted.
Gilen chuffed, then stretched out his hand. John took it, letting the other man pull him to his feet. The throb ratcheted up to a pulse, like being pummeled with small wool-covered hammers. It was a far cry from the knife blade and fire that had been his body a week ago, after Gilen had pulled him from the ruins of the town hall, but it still made for a bad night's sleep and a stiff body in the morning. John no longer cried out when he had to get up; he did grunt and occasionally moan.
With a light clap on the back Gilen steered John to the nearest fire to, as Gilen liked to put it, 'thaw John's old bones.' It was a running joke, inspired by John's pained shuffling, that Gilen refused to drop. Gilen was the same age as John, same height and build too, but his hair and beard were sandy verging on red and his eyes pale green. He also smiled too much. Sometimes amused, sometimes wistful, sometimes cynical. There was rarely a time when Gilen's mouth wasn't curled like a Cheshire Cat and it freaked John out - like the world was Gilen's private joke.
John squeezed into the cluster of soldiers young and old sharing the heat of the fire and their own bodies, everyone too stiff and cold for conversation. They wore blue coats like long coats that came to the knees, heavy and probably a hell of a lot warmer than John's ragged brown farmer's jacket, shirt and trousers (currently being held up by a belt of rope). Between the heat from the fire and the people around him, the aches toned themselves back down to a throb and John was able to straighten his body a little more.
The day was crisp but going on moist now that the rain was finally starting to fall. Fires were scattered throughout the muddy little clearing, blue-coated bodies circled around them, warming themselves or waiting for food, adding to the air the smell of smoke, sweat and boiling meat. Bowls were soon handed around, followed by young cadets lugging the cooking pots. As had been the story of John's life since being drafted as the wagon driver for this platoon, he received last.
Which meant no stew for him - supplies were going low. Only stale bread and a fist-sized chunk of crumbling cheese that smelled like feet made his breakfast. It was actually a pretty good deal. The number one rule of the army of the Phalasian Sovereignty was that soldiers came first. When food was scarce and belts tightened, civilians ate last. But the soldiers weren't cruel, and Gilen always made sure John had something in his gut before they headed off.
The sky opened up, pelting drops giving it up for a downpour already soaking through John's clothes before he could dig his oiled cloak from the wagon. When marching across country, nature was a friend and an enemy, dousing the fires and saving the men time that would have been wasted putting them out, but slicking up the dirt roads.
The men surrounded the wagon, huddling in their cloaks. John climbed into the driver's seat next to Gilen. It took John five snaps of the reins to get the damn lumbering durs moving. Durs had to be the worse pack animals in existence, the love child of an ox and an iguana, all scaly gray skin and stumpy legs. Two horns curled from its flat skull like a ram's head while two more jutted out from under the jaw. John couldn't call it a stupid beast (though he did anyway just for spite) but, damn it, the thing was stubborn to make a mule look docile. Durs only ever cooperated with those they “liked,” and even then it was fifty/fifty they would obey. John had had to fatten the thing up for over three days with various treats just to get it to like him enough for him to get it to move forward. Stopping it was still an issue. But John's choices had either been to drive the durs or slip into a blue coat and fight for the cause. A durs was a pain in the ass, but it was a safer bet than passing as a blue coat. The green coats - the rebel forces, John called them - shot blue coats. They didn't shoot civilians, especially durs drivers. Durs were the all-terrain vehicles of the animal kingdom, able to haul truckloads of supplies over any type of land. But because they played favorites, durs drivers were regarded as practically sacred.
But not religiously.
The rain was like a solid silver curtain, making the soldiers ahead a dark blue blur. If he squinted, John could almost make out the general outline of Commander Cores and the shorter Captain Felyf, as well as the tree line that marked the edge of the clearing.
“So how much longer, now?” John asked above the rain's pounding.
Gilen's head angled enough for John to see that his smile had turned amused.
“You're like a child, Sheppard. Do you know that?”
John snorted. “Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we yet?”
Gilen chuckled. “Three more days, give or take. Four depending on how bad the roads get. Practice some patience.”
John scoffed. He angled his head back at Gilen, prickling at the guy's eternal joviality. “I'm really glad you didn't just tell me to stay positive.”
Gilen gave him an odd look. “I said practice patience. Not quite the same thing, I would think.”
John shrugged, pain beating through his shoulder making him wince. “Inside joke,” he grunted. He made a mental note never to tell Rodney to stay positive again.
“They are fine,” Gilen said. “I told you. Worrying will do nothing but set you back. You must trust me, please.”
John said nothing, hunching against the rain and the juddering of the wagon wreaking havoc on his ribs, back, hip and shoulder. He would have liked to trust Gilen for the simple fact that Gilen had saved his life - pulled him from the wreckage of the bombed town hall, tended his injuries, and put John in a position to seek out his team. He wanted to trust Gilen, had every reason to, except that Gilen was a soldier dressed in the coat of the guys who took John's team.
He was also a spy playing for the other side. The guy was a professional liar, and that made him hard to trust.
The platoon entered the forest, naked trees not doing squat against the rain. The road had turned quickly to mud that John could hear sucking against slogging boots, creaking wheels and the durs' stunted legs. It made the wagon twice as juddering (John's kingdom for some shocks), and John's aches became pains provoking him to grunt and drive the wagon one handed while the other hand clutched his ribs.
“The durs' momentum is good,” Gilen said. He slipped a small canteen from his cloak and held it out to John. “I'll help if we need to make a sudden stop but it is unlikely. So drink.”
John pushed it away. “I'm good.”
“John...”
“I'm not there, yet,” John said through gritted teeth. “Muddy roads can be dangerous. I need to be alert for as long as possible.”
Which probably wouldn't be for much longer. Even John's pain tolerance had its limits and a wagon ride over rough terrain tested those limits. Two days ago, navigating through a field full of hidden rocks had been a lesson in agony that had left him unable to eat. But he didn't trust these roads or what might lie ahead. He would take his chances with the pain for however long he could stand it.
Gilen relented with a sigh, a shake of his head and that relentless smile, this time rueful.
It pissed John off but he managed not to say anything. If he could endure the pain he could endure Gilen's cryptic position in the grand scheme of this war and John's mission.
John had already asked, more than once, why Gilen was helping him. The first time it had been a tad ungrateful, “Why don't you just turn me over to your damn people, you son of a bitch!” But he'd been pained, paranoid, delirious and so an accusing bastard within his rights.
When in less pain and no longer delirious, John had asked, “Why'd you save me?”
Gilen, sitting by the pallet of the only building not destroyed beyond use, cleaning John's many cuts, smiled a smile that betrayed nothing and said as matter-of-fact as though it should have been obvious, “I'm not a heartless curd wallower.” Whatever a curd wallower was. Then he added, “I tire of war.”
And maybe Gilen was tired. John couldn't say. He'd been tired, too: tired of losing people to the point that he had disobeyed orders. But John had also been tired and still did what he felt needed to be done; sometimes right, sometimes a big damn mistake, sometimes a bone deep regret that tainted his dreams and twisted his gut. But if he thought it for the best of the expedition and helping his people, then he did it. Tired didn't really mean much.
John and his team had come to this world on an invitation from some chancellor to talk trade. “There is technology on our world,” the chancellor had said, “and we wish to trade technology.” Phalasia was protected by a shield much like the one on Kid world but with a global reach powered by several ZPMs. The Chancellor and his entourage had allowed Rodney time enough to learn what he could, to whet Atlantis' curiosity and hope, before kidnapping John and his team to use as ransom to gain weapons.
Phalasia also had a shield on their 'gate, and they knew how to use it. But that was about as techno savvy as they got, as it turned out. Really, John's first clue should have been the muskets and cannons (even if the muskets were a pretty good shot). One would think a techno savvy world would have had better than muskets and cannons.
John's team had been taken elsewhere, collateral to use against John. John was kept locked up in the dungeon of the town hall belonging to a town four miles from the 'gate but within reach of the chancellor. Four days of the chancellor raging against Atlantis' reply of “we don't negotiate with terrorists” later and the town was leveled by rebels. They had gotten wind of the Lanteans with the cool weapons thanks to Gilen, but with three of the team gone and one presumed dead, the rebels had moved on.
Gilen had told John that he saw no point in holding John and his team as ransom for the same weapons since it had gotten the Sovereignty nowhere. And maybe he was telling the truth, but John felt skepticism the safer game plan.
Time was hazy, almost nonexistent. John's pain and the rain hiding the sun made the day feel hours longer, the road a ribbon of eternity stretching into a forest that wasn't going to end. John was awake but still started with a jolt when Gilen bumped his shoulder with his own and told him to stop. He pulled back hard on the reins, the durs grunting and stomping, threatening to bolt.
“Easy, Sheppard,” Gilen muttered, and it was with some satisfaction that for a moment he wasn't smiling. When the durs finally calmed, both John and Gilen exhaled in relief.
It was premature. The rain had leveled out enough for John to see Captain Felyf slogging with heated purpose straight toward them.
“You keep that bug-bit beast under control, you hear me!” he barked. “You handle it or I string you up to the nearest tree for the animals to eat!”
“Sorry, Captain. Won't happen again,” Gilen said, drawing Felyf's volatile gaze on him.
“Was I talking to you, Fourth Captain? Was I?”
Gilen hopped from the wagon, towering over the medium Captain and only able to look straight ahead or give Felyf another reason to be pissed. You never look down at the captain, but then the list of what you didn't do when Felyf was around could have paved a mile of the muddy road.
“No, Captain. Apologies, sir.”
“Right,” Felyf sneered as though he didn't buy the submission. He shifted his gaze back to John. “You're a waste of food, you know that?”
“Leave off him,” Commander Cores called, dragging himself up the ranks. He was the opposite of Felyf in every way: tall, narrow, fair-hair thinning where as Felyf's hair and beard looked like birds had tried to build a nest out of it. Cores was pale as a fish's belly, his shoulders stooped and the bones of his face sharp enough to cut yourself on. But when he spoke, his soldiers listened. The guy could be a walking corpse and still earn respect. He practically was a walking corpse, coughing into his hand sporadically and to the point of collapse, only to wave off the ones trying to help him while he acted like the moment of weakness never happened. John didn't know what was wrong with the guy because no one liked to talk about it, and Gilen was just as much a newbie to the platoon as John so he didn't have a clue.
“Organize Cadets Asleena, Joraf, Kels and Mereen to distribute food,” Cores said on passing Felyf. Cores liked to do head counts because he wasn't the only one pretending to be hale and healthy.
“How fair you, Mr. Sheppard?” Cores asked when he had made his way around the wagon.
“Been better,” John admitted.
Cores inclined his head, looking at John like the poor victim of a rebel attack he was and the poor helpless citizen he was pretending to be. John had the feeling that Cores had hired him just as much out of pity as necessity. There had been farms near that town, any one of which could have harbored more experienced durs drivers.
“Injured men make poor drivers,” Felyf called. “That thing's gonna stampede us one of these days.”
Cores rolled his eyes and moved on. Some of the cadets laughed softly behind their hands, and a few eyed the durs warily. Meat and bread was handed around, John receiving the smaller portion. The bread was soggy from the rain, the meat tough and a literal pain to chew, but John's stomach almost imploded on itself in joy.
“Take the damn drink,” Gilen whispered to him when it was time to move on. “Stop sending a bug up Felyf's ass; it's making us all miserable.”
John relented with a derisive snort, grabbing the flask of drugged water from Gilen's hand. They climbed back into the wagon and John snapped the reins. The durs lurched forward for about two feet before stopping with an annoyed bellow, and no amount of snapping could get it going. So much for not sending a bug up Felyf's ass; the man in question stomped his way over, cursing a blue streak in Phalasian.
“Looks like the wagon's stuck,” someone said. It took most of the platoon to heave their shoulders into the wagon and the damn thing still wouldn't move.
“Roll it,” John said, whacking the durs' hide with the reins. “Back and forth.”
“Stuff it, driver!” Felyf bellowed.
“Look, you're not getting anywhere as it is. Just roll the thing,” John bellowed back. It earned Felyf's fist to his jaw and a repeat to stuff it. That brought Cores over, who, if he wasn't looking miserable before, looked ready to drop now. He chewed Felyf a new one, told him to stuff it himself and for the love of the Ancestors to listen for once. The cadets heaved the wagon, letting it roll back, heaved it forward again, back and forth until the wagon rolled from the mud with a sucking wet plop. They marched on.
“You okay, John?” Gilen asked, actually frowning.
John rubbed his jaw, working it, feeling little more than the pull of tender muscles. The water was kicking in. “I'll live.”
They slopped on into the evening, until the cadet sent on ahead had scouted a suitable clearing. It wasn't much, mostly a space where the trees weren't clustered so close together. There would be no fires tonight to keep warm and dry, only useless oiled cloaks, clammy bodies and more bread and meat. Felyf, still feeling pissy, ordered that there was to be no food for the driver.
“We're running too low as is,” he said. Gilen slipped John a crust of bread, anyway. Several cadets may have witnessed it but didn't say anything.
The night dragged on old and miserable, John's aches crawling back quick and vindictive, taut muscles pulling on cracked bones and his shivering making it worse. He lay shivering in the mud wrapped in his oiled blanket, his clothes clinging to his chilled and itchy skin. He drifted off as much as was possible to the whispers and coughs of the platoon. By morning, he was so damn stiff he could only move in increments even with Gilen's help. He really did feel like an old man, now. Worse than an old man, he felt like he'd been wraith sucked, every joint locked and not wanting to move, his spine fused, his ribs like they had been re-broken. Crap, he hoped his team wasn't going through the same.
The wagon had to be rolled again, the ground so sopping the cadets had to keep their shoulders to the wagon bed even when the wagon was moving. Once on the road, both durs and wagon found their momentum, giving the poor kids a break.
“I apologize this is not as easy a journey as I had hoped it would be,” Gilen said, his smile small. “Especially with your injuries.”
John shrugged. “Been through worse.”
Gilen arched an eyebrow at him. The week Gilen had tended to him, John hadn't exactly been talkative except when he wanted to assess his situation and plan out how he was going to rescue his team.
“I once dragged a dying buddy of mine through a desert full of hostiles with no water,” John went on.
Gilen's other eyebrow joined the first.
“Was tied up by a bunch of escaped convicts. Once had to walk through one hell of a sandstorm. And being buried alive in a collapsed building? Been there, done that.”
“Had to traverse war torn countryside with men that could be shot at any moment?” Gilen asked.
John chuckled dryly. “Compared to what my team and I have gone through to save each other's asses - I won't call this a cake walk but... let's just say I'm used to it.”
“Your team means a great deal to you.”
The durs grunted, tossing its head. John snapped the rains against its hide. “Hell yes they do.”
The rain stayed with them, sometimes easing into a drizzle, sometimes a light mist that lulled them into a false sense of relief thinking it was about to let up, only to pour thick and malicious. Mother Nature was being a bit of a witch on this planet. The rain didn't stop until what ended up being day three of their journey, extended when Commander Cores stumbled more and more and sick cadets started to drop. Room had to be made for them in the wagon bed, the durs extra stubborn thanks to the extra weight. John could not wait for the day when he could wash his hands of the damn animal.
But they arrived. The road turned, the forest fell back and a field opened up crawling with soldiers in blue coats, some on foot, some riding two-legged animals like a cross between a monkey and an allosaurus and bigger than a draft horse. There were fires, heavy with smoke from the wet wood but warm and welcoming even from a distance. There were also other wagons, other durs and durs drivers sitting on the ground or the buckboards, displaced, unhappy and no doubt wishing they'd be paid so they could leave. A lot of them were looking hunger pinched, and John was pretty sure he didn't look any different.
John's heart pounded and he leaned in toward Gilen. “Where's the prison camp?”
“Patience, John,” Gilen whispered back. “They hold the prisoners in the center of camp but your friends they might be keeping elsewhere for safety.” He had explained that a permanent location for prison camps was no longer viable - too easy a target for the rebels - and that troops had taken to transferring their prisoners from camp to camp, making them work to earn their keep and exhaust them to the point of collapse, ensuring no attempts at escape.
It was hard to maintain the role of subservient durs driver. John's body quivered, his heart hammered, the need to find his team, to see that they were alive and all right, so overwhelming it hurt. He took a swallow from the flask and several deep breaths to regain control. He steered the wagon to where the platoon was assigned to camp, held the durs in check as the wagon was unloaded, then after, saw to the durs' needs. Scattered throughout the camp were wagons full of feed - rotten vegetables and wet straw that was no never mind to a durs; the lizard-oxes were like vegetarian vultures. John unharnessed the durs while it ate, rubbed it down like Gilen had shown him, and slathered mud where the straps had rubbed the scaly skin smooth. As he worked, his eyes wandered the camp, searching.
After he tethered the durs to a hook hammered into a stump (plenty to choose from throughout the camp) John searched for Gilen and found him warming his hands at one of the many fire pits. It took everything John had to join Gilen rather than yank him away and demand that he lead him to his team.
“All done, sir,” John said, rubbing his hands, unable to feel his fingers thanks to the damn medicine still lingering in his bloodstream.
Gilen nodded. “Well done, Mr. Sheppard. Now, come with me.” He led the way from the pit through the camp, John keeping a foot of distance behind. He may have been playing the part of the civilian but even civilians had to show respect. The more respect, Gilen had said, the better the pay (to which Gilen later admitted was only a rumor to ensure better cooperation).
“Please tell me you're taking me to them,” John said under his breath. “Because I'm running a little low on patience.”
“Then rejoice, your patience is being rewarded,” Gilen said. “But you'd best covet what little of it you still have. I promised they'd be cared for but I can't promise what state you will find them in.”
“I would think 'cared for' implies alive and unharmed,” John grunted.
“It does. Normally it does. But supplies are running low with no word yet from the supply trains and rumor travels faster than written orders. If word has reached the generals that the chancellor is dead, they may have stopped regarding your compatriots as a priority.”
John felt like his heart was going to beat its way out of his chest. With each camp they cut through devoid of makeshift prisons, the tighter his muscles coiled. But where his patience dwindled his self-control made up for it, his body acting on years of having to put up with waiting, not knowing, life and death hanging by a thread. There was a desire in John to shove past Gilen and run the rest of the way, yet he didn't act on it, the ability not to act on it as second nature to him as breathing.
So when they finally arrived at the make-shift prison, his only reaction was to blink. The prison was more like a pen of hastily carved stakes supporting coils of barbed wire, with more of the same dividing the pen into sections. The soldiers and civilians inside sat beneath lean-tos made of sticks and ragged cloth, their faces and hands filthy, their eyes empty.
John's team was on the other side. When John saw them, he double-blinked, swallowed and clenched his fists until they shook.
“Guess they're not regarding them as a priority anymore,” he spat.
Gilen, his smile so insufferable that John wanted to knock it from his face, replied, “Believe me when I say it could be worse.”
“Worse!” John snarled, prompting a frown and shush from Gilen. John hissed. “I don't see the rest of your prisoners chained up like that.”
Like the others, Ronon, Rodney and Teyla were huddled under a lean-to. Unlike the others, their wrists were manacled. And if chains weren't bad enough, between the cuffs of the manacles was a thin bar severely limiting his team's range of motion.
“Who is overseeing the offworld prisoners?” Gilen called. The young cadet stationed on the right side of the tangled configuration of wood and wire that must have been the gate stiffened and saluted - his fist thumping into his chest.
“Tenth Captain Hokins at your service, sir. Fourth Captain Murls sees to the prison but I'm in charge of these three.”
“In charge no longer,” Gilen said, pulling a sheaf of dirty papers from inside his coat. “Last orders from the Chancellor before his death. I am to see to the prisoners from here on in.” Which may or may not have been a lie, depending on how one looked at it. The documents were forged - a Gilen specialty, Gilen had said with his most smug smile. But the chancellor had planned to send one of his trusted men to escort both John and his team to a more secure location once the chancellor was finished with John. Then came the attack on the town and the rest was moot.
Hokins took the papers, read them over and, John was sure, sagged in relief. He cleared his throat as though fighting the need to express his relief.
“Excellent, sir. They haven't been too much trouble but I should warn you that they don't make life easy. We've taken to using the level three restraints, as you can see.”
“And are they well?” Gilen asked. “Any illnesses, injuries?”
The captain scratched the side of his scruffy head. “They're well enough. The restraints make it difficult to eat but they ain't starving.”
Gilen nodded. “Good to hear. But my orders are to keep them in the best possible of health.” He snapped his fingers and John stepped forward. “I am going to have Mr. Sheppard here personally see to their feeding.”
Ronon's head lifted like a dog perking up at the sound of a can opener. John looked at him, Ronon looked back and if John thought himself decently skilled at self control it was nothing compared to Ronon's restraint. But that was the thing about Ronon, you had to know what to look for; the twitch in the corner of his lips, the change in his eyes from ice to steel, the bend of his head like a man who knows change is coming and coming soon. He nudged Rodney.
Rodney wasn't quite so subtle, his eyes going wide and his mouth with them until Ronon elbowed him harder. Rodney's protest alerted Teyla who looked from Ronon to Rodney then to John. Where Ronon was not obvious and Rodney too obvious, Teyla was in between. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and her shoulders sagged as though freed from a heavy burden.
John had seen his team, his team had seen him. So close...
“When is their next meal?” Gilen asked.
“In about an hour, sir.”
But still so far.
An hour. One damn hour. After enduring days of having not seen his team, he could handle one more hour.
John was sure it was the longest hour of his life, following Gilen to deliver the orders to Captain Murls, having to put his back to his team. Then standing within sight of the prison as he warmed his still-numb hands by the fire.
“Are you satisfied, John?” Gilen asked.
John glared at him. “Hell. No.”
For a moment, Gilen's features softened. “It's the best I can do, John. My say only goes so far. I would have the restraints removed but that would also remove your chance to speak with them. The guards fear they will attack any who get too near if not restrained.”
John worked his jaw. Damned if you do, damned if you don't - let them suffer so he could talk to them, remove their suffering and their means of communication. John really hated this planet.
But as sluggish as the hour tried to pass, pass it did. Prison food was a stew made from leftovers lugged around in large cauldrons and ladled through the wire into crude wooden bowls. A bell announced the eating hour and like frantic sheep to fresh grass the prisoners gathered at the fence, skinny arms reaching through the wire and not giving a damn if all the jostling earned them a couple of nicks.
John was given a smaller pot to carry, the bowls already inside the pen. Two guards followed John but hung back just inside the gate, distanced enough away for a clean shot if anyone tried anything, not too close that John would be overheard if he talked quietly enough.
There was only one bowl to be found sitting in the mud, and John had been told to feed the prisoners only until the bowl was empty; no more, no less. He spooned in as much stew as he could, then knelt in front of his team, starting with Teyla.
“John, it is good to see you,” Teyla said in one breath before taking the offered spoon.
“Your timing is impeccable as always,” hissed Rodney with a veneer of annoyance that wasn't fooling anyone. “So when are we getting out of-”
John shoved the spoon into Rodney's mouth. “Damn it, McKay, keep it down,” he snapped. He shifted over to Ronon, feeling the cold moisture seep through the knees of his pants to his skin. “I think it pretty obvious I don't have a lot of time so just listen. Things are kind of complicated right now. As much as I would love to slip through the dead of night and just up and free you guys, it isn't going to be that simple.”
“But there's a plan,” Ronon said after swallowing.
“Yeah,” John said, gut twisting, “there is.” He wasn't going to say anything about the plan hedging on a guy who may or may not have a lot of agendas up his sleeve. “Bad news is, it's going to take a while to happen. Until then, we're all going to have to sit tight.”
“Easy for you to say,” Rodney grouched. He held up his arms. “Ever try eating with something like this on your wrists? It's impossible!”
John shoved the spoon into Rodney's mouth. “And so I'm spoon feeding you. Count your blessings, Rodney. Apparently, it could be worse.” He scooted back to Teyla.
Rodney paled. “How - how worse?”
“Let's hope we never find out,” John said. “But, hey be pos-- I mean, at least we're all together to make a break for it together, right?” Just when he was about to scoot down the line back to Rodney, the brush of slender fingers over his knee stopped him and he looked at Teyla.
“We thought--” Teyla began, her eyes large and shimmering. “We heard... there was an attack? We had feared the worst.”
John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yeah, well.” He smiled, trying to make it sincere and comforting. “One last thing to be afraid of.” He was sure he'd failed. But as if life couldn't make him miserable enough, the medicine wore off, and by the time the bowl was down to the last couple of spoonfuls every minor movement became a reason for his injuries to complain. He tried his best to cover it up, but couldn't help a couple of extra grunts.
It was inevitable; it didn't go unnoticed.
“John?” Teyla pressed, while John could feel the weight of Ronon's and Rodney's stares.
“I'm fine,” John said, stuffing the last shallow spoonful into Rodney's mouth just as he opened it to say something. It was a struggle to scrabble to his feet, causing his ribs to twinge and forcing another pained grunt from his throat.
“Sheppard,” Ronon said with force.
“Gotta go,” John said. “Kick at me.”
Rodney squawked. “What! Kick you? You look ready to drop and you want us to kick you?”
“At me, McKay,” John snarled. “I want Ronon to kick at me. Let's not give the twitchy guards a reason to think you like me for no good reason.”
Ronon complied, snapping one leg in John's general direction and adding a, “Get the hell away from us!” for good measure. John made sure to position himself in front of Ronon when it happened. He heard guns cock, but relaxed when they didn't fire.
“See you guys at breakfast,” he whispered, and scuttled off with his head bowed.
Not before he heard Teyla whisper back, “Be well, John.”
-------------------------
“When, Gilen? And don't even tell me to practice patience.”
Gilen looked at the overcast sky going dark with the coming evening, as though he could see the position of the setting sun through the clouds.
“Then I won't,” Gilen said, curl to his lips, everything so damn amusing. John thumped his fists against his thighs to keep from decking Gilen.
Two days and the promised prison convoy meant to transport John's team to a secure location hadn't come. Neither had the supply wagons. Food was going low and the prison stew was a little thinner each time it was dished up.
The plan - what was supposed to be the plan - was to let the convoy take John's team, wait until they were a mile from the camp then slip in during the night when the guards would be too exhausted to pay complete attention, free his team then haul ass through the woods back to the 'gate. They would be dependent on two rifles and Gilen's knowledge of the terrain.
John hated the plan, but he was a man between a rock and a hard place, and so far he had yet to come up with anything better. Neither could his team. So Gilen's iffy plan it had to be.
Captain Felyf had also taken a “special” interest in John. Gilen tried to placate the situation by saying Felyf took an interest in anyone who wasn't wearing a blue coat but, damn it, John didn't need this crap. He could see Felyf now, wandering out from around the other side of the prison pen, always checking and rechecking the wire. When he spotted Gilen and John loitering by a fire pit next to one of the cooking pits, he stared at them while continuing on.
“War laughs at plans,” Gilen said. “When they say a convoy is to come in five days, then expect to see it in five weeks.”
John clenched and unclenched his fingers that the fire refused to warm. “Then we need a new plan.”
“Granted. But believe me, our current plan is as good as it is going to get. I will not tell you to have patience, John. But do think of it this way - the longer the wait, the more you will heal.”
John chuckled caustically. “Yeah, at the rate I'm going I doubt five days or weeks will make a difference.” The aches and pains refused to change for better or worse, leaving him perpetually hunched. Toss in the cold air and biting winds and it was a miracle he could move. Every night he had to sleep under the influence of medicine, and every morning was reliant on Gilan's help to get him to his feet and get him moving. John's rations had been cut back to two “snacks” a day. He had forgotten what it was like to be full.
But he could deal with hunger. His chief concern was McKay, who hadn't been looking too good last meal time.
“What is it like, John?” Gilen said.
John, startled by the non sequitur, muttered, “Huh?”
“Out there.” Gilen gestured vaguely. “Beyond all this.”
It took a moment to translate, but John eventually got it. He looked around making sure no one was within earshot. With this pit's fire dying and the cadets having moved on to better fires, it was just John and Gilen.
“Depends on where you go,” John said. “For the most part, I guess you could say it's a lot of... sporadic survival. The Wraith make life unpredictable. But you get used to it, I guess.”
“Are there worlds untouched by them? Worlds like ours?”
“Yeah. Though I wouldn't really recommend them.” John watched as Felyf came around for his second circuit. “Just because a world can't be touched doesn't mean it's all coffee and cupcakes. Your world is pretty much proof of that.”
“Mmm, yes,” Gilen said. “But your world--”
“Not any safer,” John said. A hell of a lot safer than this world, yes, but like John was going to say that out loud.
The dinner bell rang and John left to go feed his team. The stew was mostly water, today, the meat and vegetable bits barely visible. John, figuring as much, had already prepared. After feeding Teyla, he scooted over to Rodney and shoved a small chunk of soaked bread into his mouth.
“Chew and swallow fast,” John whispered. Rodney did gratefully, if sluggishly. He was looking pale, tired but scared, and even restrained his hands still shook. “Sorry I couldn't get more for the rest of you guys.”
“It is all right, John,” Teyla whispered back.
“Better than nothing, right?” Rodney said with a weak and twitchy smile, while his eyes begged, 'how much longer?' John could only silently apologize.
Another two days came and went, the supply wagons still absent, and prison food was cut. There was only breakfast and dinner, now. John remedied this as best he could by using his own dinner of bread and jerky.
“You're going to get caught doing this,” Rodney said.
“Haven't yet.” Which may have been the wrong thing to say.
Ronon, going rigid, hissed, “Sheppard!” Jerking his chin imperceptibly in the direction behind John. He turned, but too late when he was yanked to his feet and out of the pen by his collar. He was thrown to the muddy ground, the remains of the stew splashing all over a pair of dirty boots planted inches from John's face.
John looked up at Felyf glaring down at him.
“Search him,” Felyf said. Hands patted John roughly down.
Gilen, standing by Felyf and looking frantic, tossed up his hands. “I told you, we're under orders to keep them healthy. They have vital information--” But his words landed on deaf ears when whoever was frisking John pulled the jerky he hadn't managed to give McKay from his pocket.
Felyf snatched it from the cadet, studying it with a triumphant smile. He looked down at John like a cat would a cornered mouse.
“I knew it,” he said. His boot slammed into John's head. John's world went dark.
To Part 2...