SGA FIC: THE PRISONER [PG-13]
Title: The Prisoner
Author: x-erikah-x
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1550
Pairing and/or Characters: OC, John Sheppard
Warning/spoilers: Implied torture
Synopsis: She swallowed and stepped back turning to exit and forget she came in. She hated entering to feed them when the time was bad. But with this one it was hard to find the good time. For seven days he had been there, seven times Myria had come and six of those times had been bad.
Disclaimer: Stargate and related characters are a property its owner. This is a work of fiction done for entertainment purposes only. The story and original characters remain a property of its author.
Author's Note: Written for the tourney in sg_fic_uoa.
THE PRISONER
By ErikaHK
Maybe it was the way his eyes looked or maybe it was the way his face was set. There was something in there that told Myria that this man had seen a lot and done a lot. She stared at him for a few moments, bent on finding out what it was. She decided it was both. His eyes were deeply green, but also dark for some reason. His head was down, but his eyes were looking up. His face was lonely and sad, but defiant and challenging all at once. He wasn't old, but the strays of silver on his sideburns showed he wasn't young either.
She slid the tray under the bar and closed the lid, trying to ignore the scene that was beginning to unfold again.
She swallowed and stepped back turning to exit and forget she came in. She hated entering to feed them when the time was bad. But with this one it was hard to find the good time. For seven days he had been there, seven times Myria had come and six of those times had been bad.
How could she know?
It wasn't usually like this. Most of the time, she didn't even need to worry about when to bring the food. There were only a few rare exceptions, but it was usually easy to tell. At night it was always okay, but in the mornings she needed to watch out which guards were on shift. Yarlle and his grunts liked the mornings while Fredle preferred the afternoons. But at night, it didn't matter.
That was why she started to only go on her round at night.
Rarely there would be a prisoner that required the treatments after dark, but it never happened two nights in a row, let alone six. For some reason this one was different.
She had known since the moment she had first put eyes on him.
He wasn't gaunt like the other men. He was lean but strong and he fought back despite the number of guards holding him down. Sometimes he looked like a feral wild cat and sometimes he was like a big thern. She hadn't dared to watch him further.
She preferred to just be quiet, lower her head and walk out.
Walking briskly away from the secluded cell, Myria shut the heavy metal door from the corridor, blockading the screaming. She ran back to her little room and locked her door, lowering herself to the mattress on the floor.
----------------
The next day wasn't any different. She swallowed hard as she approached, already hearing the sounds she wished she were able to ignore. She hesitated before turning the corner and breathed deep. Waiting would make it worse. The guards never noticed her; she should get it over with already and spare having to come back and find herself in the same situation later.
She walked in slowly, trying to appear small and insignificant. She picked up the bowl that was partly eaten and deposited the full one. She heard his fast and ragged breathing and glanced up, surprised to find him looking at her. She looked down and avoided the look, but couldn't help having the image burned in her mind.
He was on his knees, hands tied to the walls, blood dripping down from his wrists all the way to his bare chest. His back was bent low and his head drooping. His body had a collection of cuts and colorful bruises and one of the guards was holding a whip. Above all, she wouldn't forget the way his eyes looked. They weren't the eyes of a defeated man. He still had fire in him. She had never seen such eyes, not even outside of prison.
She raised to her feet and hurried out.
In the next day, she decided to start a special schedule. Instead of going to all the cells at night, she went to his cell before the sun set, hoping she would find only him and no guards. She followed the corridor, apprehension growing from the silence. She could almost smile. Maybe it finally was a good time.
When she entered, he was curled on one corner shaking with cold with only his baggy pants as a cover. She lowered herself to pick up his bowl but snatched her hand away when she saw it still completely full. She glanced up. He was still in the same position, face looking the wall. His back was a mess of skin, cuts and blood. She swallowed.
She decided to change the bowl anyway and slid the new one under the bars. The lid of the drawer slipped from her hand and banged loudly. She lifted her face and saw him snap around and stand, his stance ready to fight. He was much faster than she believed he was capable of, but the need and fear had a way of making the body work.
He looked wildly from side to side for a few moments until he registered the lack of a threat and sagged back on the floor.
She wondered what he had done to be in prison and treated like that. A man with eyes like his, the way they always looked at her, shouldn't have done anything as bad as to deserve that treatment, could he? But if he had been a man of right, then he probably wouldn't be in prison.
"I'm not the bad guy."
How could he know what she had been thinking? She swallowed and didn't remove the surprise from her face. Her voice took several moments to work again.
"How can you tell?"
"I just can."
"That is no answer."
His face became hardened. "Who do you think is bad guys here? Me or those grunts?"
"Maybe you deserve it," she whispered as she lowered her head.
She raised and left the cell.
--------------
She started coming in everyday at the same time. The guards were always busy with the ordinary prisoners in the afternoon and left him alone. She didn't speak to him again for two days.
On the third, he was waiting for her sitting on the corner, his knees up and arms loose around them. His eyes were soft when she looked at him. Sliding out the tray, she noticed his bowl was empty. She replaced it and slid it back inside.
"What's your name?"
She glanced up in surprise. "Myria."
"What do you do here?"
She looked down then raised her head again. "I feed the prisoners."
"Why?"
"Wh-what did you do?"
"I helped a farmer that couldn't pay his taxes." His answer came naturally and without any delay.
Myria swallowed and stood. That was no talk to be having with a prisoner.
--------------
On the next day, the time was bad. She froze mid stride in the corridor, surprised to hear them with him. The sky still had light; he shouldn't be receiving the treatment.
She didn't know why, but she turned around and walked away.
--------------
She returned early the next day to find his bowl barely touched. She looked inside his cell and saw him curled against the wall, his relaxed posture telling her that he was asleep. She replaced it anyway and left.
She went back later the same day at the usual time. His bowl hadn't been touched. She looked up and saw him still sleeping in the very same position. She approached the bars and turned her head to have a better look at him. She wasn't able to distinguish bare skin in his body. It was covered by marks, bruises and blood. She swallowed and held the bars.
"Hey," she whispered. He didn't move, so she called again. "Sir?"
He didn't change his stance.
"I-I brought you food." Her heart beat fast as she spoke.
He didn't respond. Maybe he was dead? That happened sometimes. Usually to the older ones. Sometimes the treatment got too bad and Yarlle especially went too far on occasions.
If he was dead, she would have to leave his cell door open so Gronic would come and collect him.
She closed the outer door of the corridor then unlocked his bars and entered his cell. She knelt next to him and checked his neck like her grandmother had taught her. She snatched it away when she felt his heart beating weak. She looked at him and could barely tell that he was breathing.
He wasn't dead yet, but it was only a matter of time.
"Don't move."
Myria's heart leaped. She heard soft footsteps entering the cell and closed her eyes, breathing fast. When she opened them again, she was surprised to find a huge man knelt by the prisoner's body. How he had got in with the outter door locked, she didn't know. He put his weapon away and touched the man's neck.
"He's not dead," she said.
The big man nodded. He picked up the prisoner in his arms as if he was a fragile child then stood and exited the cell.
"It'd be faster if you go through the east side."
The big man stopped and turned around.
Myria removed a small key from her chain. "Here. This key opens the door."
He picked up the key and nodded. He started leaving but stopped and turned.
"Thanks."
The End
Author: x-erikah-x
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1550
Pairing and/or Characters: OC, John Sheppard
Warning/spoilers: Implied torture
Synopsis: She swallowed and stepped back turning to exit and forget she came in. She hated entering to feed them when the time was bad. But with this one it was hard to find the good time. For seven days he had been there, seven times Myria had come and six of those times had been bad.
Disclaimer: Stargate and related characters are a property its owner. This is a work of fiction done for entertainment purposes only. The story and original characters remain a property of its author.
Author's Note: Written for the tourney in sg_fic_uoa.
THE PRISONER
By ErikaHK
Maybe it was the way his eyes looked or maybe it was the way his face was set. There was something in there that told Myria that this man had seen a lot and done a lot. She stared at him for a few moments, bent on finding out what it was. She decided it was both. His eyes were deeply green, but also dark for some reason. His head was down, but his eyes were looking up. His face was lonely and sad, but defiant and challenging all at once. He wasn't old, but the strays of silver on his sideburns showed he wasn't young either.
She slid the tray under the bar and closed the lid, trying to ignore the scene that was beginning to unfold again.
She swallowed and stepped back turning to exit and forget she came in. She hated entering to feed them when the time was bad. But with this one it was hard to find the good time. For seven days he had been there, seven times Myria had come and six of those times had been bad.
How could she know?
It wasn't usually like this. Most of the time, she didn't even need to worry about when to bring the food. There were only a few rare exceptions, but it was usually easy to tell. At night it was always okay, but in the mornings she needed to watch out which guards were on shift. Yarlle and his grunts liked the mornings while Fredle preferred the afternoons. But at night, it didn't matter.
That was why she started to only go on her round at night.
Rarely there would be a prisoner that required the treatments after dark, but it never happened two nights in a row, let alone six. For some reason this one was different.
She had known since the moment she had first put eyes on him.
He wasn't gaunt like the other men. He was lean but strong and he fought back despite the number of guards holding him down. Sometimes he looked like a feral wild cat and sometimes he was like a big thern. She hadn't dared to watch him further.
She preferred to just be quiet, lower her head and walk out.
Walking briskly away from the secluded cell, Myria shut the heavy metal door from the corridor, blockading the screaming. She ran back to her little room and locked her door, lowering herself to the mattress on the floor.
----------------
The next day wasn't any different. She swallowed hard as she approached, already hearing the sounds she wished she were able to ignore. She hesitated before turning the corner and breathed deep. Waiting would make it worse. The guards never noticed her; she should get it over with already and spare having to come back and find herself in the same situation later.
She walked in slowly, trying to appear small and insignificant. She picked up the bowl that was partly eaten and deposited the full one. She heard his fast and ragged breathing and glanced up, surprised to find him looking at her. She looked down and avoided the look, but couldn't help having the image burned in her mind.
He was on his knees, hands tied to the walls, blood dripping down from his wrists all the way to his bare chest. His back was bent low and his head drooping. His body had a collection of cuts and colorful bruises and one of the guards was holding a whip. Above all, she wouldn't forget the way his eyes looked. They weren't the eyes of a defeated man. He still had fire in him. She had never seen such eyes, not even outside of prison.
She raised to her feet and hurried out.
In the next day, she decided to start a special schedule. Instead of going to all the cells at night, she went to his cell before the sun set, hoping she would find only him and no guards. She followed the corridor, apprehension growing from the silence. She could almost smile. Maybe it finally was a good time.
When she entered, he was curled on one corner shaking with cold with only his baggy pants as a cover. She lowered herself to pick up his bowl but snatched her hand away when she saw it still completely full. She glanced up. He was still in the same position, face looking the wall. His back was a mess of skin, cuts and blood. She swallowed.
She decided to change the bowl anyway and slid the new one under the bars. The lid of the drawer slipped from her hand and banged loudly. She lifted her face and saw him snap around and stand, his stance ready to fight. He was much faster than she believed he was capable of, but the need and fear had a way of making the body work.
He looked wildly from side to side for a few moments until he registered the lack of a threat and sagged back on the floor.
She wondered what he had done to be in prison and treated like that. A man with eyes like his, the way they always looked at her, shouldn't have done anything as bad as to deserve that treatment, could he? But if he had been a man of right, then he probably wouldn't be in prison.
"I'm not the bad guy."
How could he know what she had been thinking? She swallowed and didn't remove the surprise from her face. Her voice took several moments to work again.
"How can you tell?"
"I just can."
"That is no answer."
His face became hardened. "Who do you think is bad guys here? Me or those grunts?"
"Maybe you deserve it," she whispered as she lowered her head.
She raised and left the cell.
--------------
She started coming in everyday at the same time. The guards were always busy with the ordinary prisoners in the afternoon and left him alone. She didn't speak to him again for two days.
On the third, he was waiting for her sitting on the corner, his knees up and arms loose around them. His eyes were soft when she looked at him. Sliding out the tray, she noticed his bowl was empty. She replaced it and slid it back inside.
"What's your name?"
She glanced up in surprise. "Myria."
"What do you do here?"
She looked down then raised her head again. "I feed the prisoners."
"Why?"
"Wh-what did you do?"
"I helped a farmer that couldn't pay his taxes." His answer came naturally and without any delay.
Myria swallowed and stood. That was no talk to be having with a prisoner.
--------------
On the next day, the time was bad. She froze mid stride in the corridor, surprised to hear them with him. The sky still had light; he shouldn't be receiving the treatment.
She didn't know why, but she turned around and walked away.
--------------
She returned early the next day to find his bowl barely touched. She looked inside his cell and saw him curled against the wall, his relaxed posture telling her that he was asleep. She replaced it anyway and left.
She went back later the same day at the usual time. His bowl hadn't been touched. She looked up and saw him still sleeping in the very same position. She approached the bars and turned her head to have a better look at him. She wasn't able to distinguish bare skin in his body. It was covered by marks, bruises and blood. She swallowed and held the bars.
"Hey," she whispered. He didn't move, so she called again. "Sir?"
He didn't change his stance.
"I-I brought you food." Her heart beat fast as she spoke.
He didn't respond. Maybe he was dead? That happened sometimes. Usually to the older ones. Sometimes the treatment got too bad and Yarlle especially went too far on occasions.
If he was dead, she would have to leave his cell door open so Gronic would come and collect him.
She closed the outer door of the corridor then unlocked his bars and entered his cell. She knelt next to him and checked his neck like her grandmother had taught her. She snatched it away when she felt his heart beating weak. She looked at him and could barely tell that he was breathing.
He wasn't dead yet, but it was only a matter of time.
"Don't move."
Myria's heart leaped. She heard soft footsteps entering the cell and closed her eyes, breathing fast. When she opened them again, she was surprised to find a huge man knelt by the prisoner's body. How he had got in with the outter door locked, she didn't know. He put his weapon away and touched the man's neck.
"He's not dead," she said.
The big man nodded. He picked up the prisoner in his arms as if he was a fragile child then stood and exited the cell.
"It'd be faster if you go through the east side."
The big man stopped and turned around.
Myria removed a small key from her chain. "Here. This key opens the door."
He picked up the key and nodded. He started leaving but stopped and turned.
"Thanks."
The End