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sga_flashficAm I the first one to post? Again? I seem to be making a habit of this.
Title:The Host
Rating:PG-13
Spoilers:Really, really vague warnings for Sunday here. I haven't seen that episode, and I don't really want to.
Summary:When he stepped through the ‘Gate, for the first time, he felt as if he had stepped into an underground palace, and could not suppress a shiver.
Warnings: Um... I might have completely bastardized Celtic mythology by accident? Please don't kill me?
Notes: Title's taken from "The Hosting of the Sidhe", by William Butler Yeats. I seem to be following this kind of theme a lot in my fanfic... Read and Review!
Disclaimer: SGA is not mine. The Celtic legends I’ve bastardized here are not mine. We clear on all that? Good. Now please try not to kill me for what I’ve done in this story.
The Host
Nuada? Caron thinks on occasion, checking McKay’s blood pressure and determinedly ignoring the whine and accusations of “witch-doctor”. It’s not quite that unfounded, actually – quite a lot of modern medicine is still guesswork and chance. Despite all the advances the modern world has offered healers, there’s still no guarantee of a safe recovery – every medicine, every surgery, has at least some element of risk. He’s made his peace with the fact long ago - he’s fairly sure Rodney’s aware of it as well. If it makes the man feel better to moan and deride his profession, let him.
Still, his mother never did that with a sheep.
Rodney’s all too eager to escape from the infirmary. Watching the man departing, Carson can’t help but seen a flickering afterimage.
When he first stepped into the city, before the halls lit with a soft blue radiance and the towers burst through the sea, he thought for an instant that he was underground. And he couldn’t help but make the connection, disjointed though it may be.
After all, his Mum was a good Scottish woman, and did right by her son. She taught him to always be respectful, polite, and kind. And, as any good Scotswoman would, she told him the old tales as she rocked him to sleep.
Now, whenever he feels the almost subliminal hum of Ancient technology beneath his fingertips, he recollects the Old stories. Stories of the Tuatha De Danann, of the Sidhe and the Fae. The Old people, those who first walked the land and sang it to awaken, lords of that which Was Not and masters of illusion.
Never mention their name, his Mum had whispered to him once upon a time, rocking him close, for the host will hear. Call them the Gentry, or the Kind Gentlemen, and they might pass you by. For they are old and powerful, and they yet remain hidden.
He knows it’s not real, of course. It’s a bunch of fairy tales and hobgoblin stories, meant to frighten the young. But he can’t help but remember.
The Sidhe were cast out, bound by their Oath to dwell beneath the earth for ever and always, for as long as the land would last. That he recalls from tales that predate Christianity. Dwellers of the Faerie mounds, who shrank from sunlight and danced in shadow. Terrible as the storm and lovely as the moon, forces of nature that could not be bargained with or swayed to mercy.
He knows it’s not real. He knows.
But he can’t help but think. Bound underground they might have been, but it was never mentioned where. A people ancient and powerful, who were denied the sun and hidden beyond all sight, to vanish into the legends of his kin. He knows that there were other legends that the StarGate Project has proven all too real, and that the myriad gods and goddesses that speckle the globe had at least some basis in reality.
An ancient people, with powers seemingly beyond mortal ken... And Scotland, where a bloodline might claim Fae heritage… It’s all nonsense, he knows, but he can’t help but wonder.
When he stepped through the ‘Gate, for the first time, he felt as if he had stepped into an underground palace, and could not suppress a shiver.
***
So now he thinks and watches and cannot help but compare those he sees with the tales from his childhood.
McKay is easy – almost too easy. Nuada of the Silver Arm, he whom lost his hand in battle, only to replace it with an artisan’s dream, an arm carved and folded out of pure silver. A King of his people, yet not – for he was made imperfect by his maiming, and King must be something other then mortal.
Rodney’s nothing like that. Nothing. Or so he tells himself. But he watches McKay’s eyes light up every time he caresses a trinket of the Ancients, and cannot help but wonder. King, but not leader. Lord, but not master. And broken in a manner he cannot truly describe, save for the look that shines from those piercingly blue eyes in unguarded moments.
When Teyla passes him in the hallways, he can’t help but imagine the lick of flames in her trail. He can imagine all too well how Brighid, lady of the skies and keeper of the secret fire would favor her. Brighid, daughter of gods, she whom kept the sacred wisdom and shared it with the worthy. He can see all too well how the title would suit her – she, who watches all unceasingly, remembering and learning far more then one would suppose.
He knows it’s unkind of him, but he cannot help but think of fair Elatha whenever he sees Ronan. Elatha, he whom alone of the Fomorians could walk as a man and possessed a sense of honor and kindness. Ronan is human – there’s no doubt about that – but there’s something dangerous about the man, something deadly and ever watchful. He cannot help but shiver at times when those dark, dark eyes light upon him, and he thinks of a dark prince who dared to stand in the sunlight.
For a long time, he cannot place John. Sheppard – the more he learns of the man, the less he understands him. An enigma, pure and simple – though he tries, he cannot pierce the mask that the man has raised about his soul.
Beware a mask he once heard it said, for fear you may forget what lies underneath. For fear it might become the truth. He’s not sure what lies beneath the Colonel’s mask. He’s not sure he wants to know. Let the man keep his secrets – he likes what little he knows of the soldier, and is content with that.
***
He only sees the mask lifted once, just at the end, and jolts in recognition of what he sees staring at him. Ravens and honey and half-heard screams, and all which is born from the winds of his childhood is staring at him with eyes that would make midnight pale in comparison.
He recognizes him. How could he not?
It is the Morrigan who stares at him, dressed in a soldier’s clothes and form. The Great Queen, the Phantom Queen, lady of slaughter and mistress of war. The Stormcrow, who delights in battle, whose walk is destruction and whose steed is the Night Mare. All the breath is snatched from his lungs as he stares at the one he had called friend, mocking him with the form and face of one whom he had grown to cherish as kin.
And then – and then the Goddess smiles. And her – his – eyes are dark, but not the dark of despair, but the darkness that lies behind the eyes and beckons one slowly to sleep. The peaceful shadow, that blankets the slumbering valleys and hills of the lands he loves and promises an end to pain, a beginning of rest. And he’s not afraid anymore.
Because whatever else he may be, this is John Sheppard before him, and he trusts him on a level so deep it lies beyond understanding.
And as he reaches out to take his – her – hand, he realizes something. He trusted Sheppard to guard his life. Now he trusts him to guard his death.
And - somehow - he’s known that all along.
Title:The Host
Rating:PG-13
Spoilers:Really, really vague warnings for Sunday here. I haven't seen that episode, and I don't really want to.
Summary:When he stepped through the ‘Gate, for the first time, he felt as if he had stepped into an underground palace, and could not suppress a shiver.
Warnings: Um... I might have completely bastardized Celtic mythology by accident? Please don't kill me?
Notes: Title's taken from "The Hosting of the Sidhe", by William Butler Yeats. I seem to be following this kind of theme a lot in my fanfic... Read and Review!
Disclaimer: SGA is not mine. The Celtic legends I’ve bastardized here are not mine. We clear on all that? Good. Now please try not to kill me for what I’ve done in this story.
The Host
Nuada? Caron thinks on occasion, checking McKay’s blood pressure and determinedly ignoring the whine and accusations of “witch-doctor”. It’s not quite that unfounded, actually – quite a lot of modern medicine is still guesswork and chance. Despite all the advances the modern world has offered healers, there’s still no guarantee of a safe recovery – every medicine, every surgery, has at least some element of risk. He’s made his peace with the fact long ago - he’s fairly sure Rodney’s aware of it as well. If it makes the man feel better to moan and deride his profession, let him.
Still, his mother never did that with a sheep.
Rodney’s all too eager to escape from the infirmary. Watching the man departing, Carson can’t help but seen a flickering afterimage.
When he first stepped into the city, before the halls lit with a soft blue radiance and the towers burst through the sea, he thought for an instant that he was underground. And he couldn’t help but make the connection, disjointed though it may be.
After all, his Mum was a good Scottish woman, and did right by her son. She taught him to always be respectful, polite, and kind. And, as any good Scotswoman would, she told him the old tales as she rocked him to sleep.
Now, whenever he feels the almost subliminal hum of Ancient technology beneath his fingertips, he recollects the Old stories. Stories of the Tuatha De Danann, of the Sidhe and the Fae. The Old people, those who first walked the land and sang it to awaken, lords of that which Was Not and masters of illusion.
Never mention their name, his Mum had whispered to him once upon a time, rocking him close, for the host will hear. Call them the Gentry, or the Kind Gentlemen, and they might pass you by. For they are old and powerful, and they yet remain hidden.
He knows it’s not real, of course. It’s a bunch of fairy tales and hobgoblin stories, meant to frighten the young. But he can’t help but remember.
The Sidhe were cast out, bound by their Oath to dwell beneath the earth for ever and always, for as long as the land would last. That he recalls from tales that predate Christianity. Dwellers of the Faerie mounds, who shrank from sunlight and danced in shadow. Terrible as the storm and lovely as the moon, forces of nature that could not be bargained with or swayed to mercy.
He knows it’s not real. He knows.
But he can’t help but think. Bound underground they might have been, but it was never mentioned where. A people ancient and powerful, who were denied the sun and hidden beyond all sight, to vanish into the legends of his kin. He knows that there were other legends that the StarGate Project has proven all too real, and that the myriad gods and goddesses that speckle the globe had at least some basis in reality.
An ancient people, with powers seemingly beyond mortal ken... And Scotland, where a bloodline might claim Fae heritage… It’s all nonsense, he knows, but he can’t help but wonder.
When he stepped through the ‘Gate, for the first time, he felt as if he had stepped into an underground palace, and could not suppress a shiver.
***
So now he thinks and watches and cannot help but compare those he sees with the tales from his childhood.
McKay is easy – almost too easy. Nuada of the Silver Arm, he whom lost his hand in battle, only to replace it with an artisan’s dream, an arm carved and folded out of pure silver. A King of his people, yet not – for he was made imperfect by his maiming, and King must be something other then mortal.
Rodney’s nothing like that. Nothing. Or so he tells himself. But he watches McKay’s eyes light up every time he caresses a trinket of the Ancients, and cannot help but wonder. King, but not leader. Lord, but not master. And broken in a manner he cannot truly describe, save for the look that shines from those piercingly blue eyes in unguarded moments.
When Teyla passes him in the hallways, he can’t help but imagine the lick of flames in her trail. He can imagine all too well how Brighid, lady of the skies and keeper of the secret fire would favor her. Brighid, daughter of gods, she whom kept the sacred wisdom and shared it with the worthy. He can see all too well how the title would suit her – she, who watches all unceasingly, remembering and learning far more then one would suppose.
He knows it’s unkind of him, but he cannot help but think of fair Elatha whenever he sees Ronan. Elatha, he whom alone of the Fomorians could walk as a man and possessed a sense of honor and kindness. Ronan is human – there’s no doubt about that – but there’s something dangerous about the man, something deadly and ever watchful. He cannot help but shiver at times when those dark, dark eyes light upon him, and he thinks of a dark prince who dared to stand in the sunlight.
For a long time, he cannot place John. Sheppard – the more he learns of the man, the less he understands him. An enigma, pure and simple – though he tries, he cannot pierce the mask that the man has raised about his soul.
Beware a mask he once heard it said, for fear you may forget what lies underneath. For fear it might become the truth. He’s not sure what lies beneath the Colonel’s mask. He’s not sure he wants to know. Let the man keep his secrets – he likes what little he knows of the soldier, and is content with that.
***
He only sees the mask lifted once, just at the end, and jolts in recognition of what he sees staring at him. Ravens and honey and half-heard screams, and all which is born from the winds of his childhood is staring at him with eyes that would make midnight pale in comparison.
He recognizes him. How could he not?
It is the Morrigan who stares at him, dressed in a soldier’s clothes and form. The Great Queen, the Phantom Queen, lady of slaughter and mistress of war. The Stormcrow, who delights in battle, whose walk is destruction and whose steed is the Night Mare. All the breath is snatched from his lungs as he stares at the one he had called friend, mocking him with the form and face of one whom he had grown to cherish as kin.
And then – and then the Goddess smiles. And her – his – eyes are dark, but not the dark of despair, but the darkness that lies behind the eyes and beckons one slowly to sleep. The peaceful shadow, that blankets the slumbering valleys and hills of the lands he loves and promises an end to pain, a beginning of rest. And he’s not afraid anymore.
Because whatever else he may be, this is John Sheppard before him, and he trusts him on a level so deep it lies beyond understanding.
And as he reaches out to take his – her – hand, he realizes something. He trusted Sheppard to guard his life. Now he trusts him to guard his death.
And - somehow - he’s known that all along.