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sga_flashficAuthor: Salieri
Title: Lux, Lumen
Challenge: First Contact
Episodes: none
Pairing: none-ish
Warnings: none
Rating: G?
Note on the title: In medieval optical theory there is a distinction and analogical relation between "lux" which refers to spiritual light--Grace or, in a Platonic sense, the light of Reason--and "lumen" which refers to the physical light of the natural world.
The Firt Contact Challenge makes me *bounce*!!! Since aliens, and alien aliens are my favourite thing ever. Well, next to Rodney and John and Teyla and Elizabeth and Ford and Kate and Beckett and of course, Zelenka (more Kate please. More Zelenka please), so THANK YOU those who suggested it.
This is actually based on a dream I had, and you know how that can go, so I hope it makes sense enough.
Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
agentotter for quick beta and for generally making me happy. This version's tweaked a bit, O.
Lux, Lumen
They come in a slow unfurling, at first a haze, then a storm.
Right now they taste like those candies he always liked as a kid. The ones that crackled and sizzled on the tongue. Urban legend: if you chew the candy along with a mouthful of Coke your head will explode. Happened to a kid in Downsview. Everything happens to kids in Downsview.
"Pop-rocks," Rodney says, and the word tastes like fake grape flavour and sparks against the roof of his mouth. He doesn't want to, but he sucks in a deep breath and exhales a glittering cloud. He should feel the abrasion in his lungs and throat, because their light is jagged around the edges. Or maybe it's just him that's jagged around the edges. It's getting hard to tell. They are a clatter in his brain.
Rolling his head a little to the side, he squints through the blurring swirl of them, finds Elizabeth on her back, like him. When she looks at him, her eyes are gleaming like they're brimming with golden tears. She could be a seraphim, fallen into flesh, still molten with the memory of rapture. And like him she's breathing aliens.
On Rodney's other side, the Major is another kind of memory, a curve of resistance, knees up to his chest, hands pulled close and fisted, but uncurling now, slowly forgetting. His eyes aren't open. Rodney's hand fumbles across the floor and catches the sleeve of his jacket, then his arm, his fingers squeezing until they feel muscle, bone. He's surprised: he expects Sheppard to be held together by surface tension alone, poised for effervescence. Sheppard's eyes move under his closed lids, lashes making dancing, erratic shadows on his skin. He's made of glass, a hurricane lantern.
Rodney wonders if his own eyes are like Elizabeth's, seeping gold. He's afraid to raise his hand to check; he doesn't want his own tears to burn him. But they aren't hot, not really. Against his will, he breathes again, and this time the light tastes like Sheppard's mouth--honeybread and tuttle root. He's not sure how that's possible, or how he recognizes it.
Atlantis is lambent against a world of dark water, silent but for the sound of waves and laboured breathing and the steady thumping of Rodney's heart.
"Fireflies?" Elizabeth asks, turning to raise a questioning eyebrow at them and then leaning forward again over the balcony railing, the tense angle of her neck telling them that she's peering narrow-eyed into the distance. She rises up on her toes and yearns a little further, like the few inches would make the difference.
"Maybe," Sheppard agrees tentatively, but his forehead is creased and his eye is squinting up a bit with a half-wincing skeptical frown.
Over the water the glittering cloud could be one of the gauze-winged nebulae that wheel like vast clockworks into the night sky, except that this moves with the synchronized grace of a flock of sea birds, pacing its bright reflection on the becalmed sea, arcs and swerves that bring it closer and closer to Atlantis until the air around them begins to burn with a shifting orange-gold iridescence warmer than opals.
Elizabeth turns toward them and when she opens her mouth to speak a sparkling plume drifts from between her lips. "Rodney--" she says, and his name glitters and hangs in the air between them.
Taking a step toward them, she falters, sinks down with a hand held out to break her slow-motion fall. Beside him, Sheppard coughs out light and grabs his sleeve as he doubles over. Rodney can't hold him up, overbalances and tips forward on top of him, face against the nape of Sheppard's neck, and he should feel the warmth of skin and the tickling brush of hair, but he doesn't. He feels just like he did when he took Halcyon for a root canal. His eyes are open, but his body is conjectural, a leap of faith without empirical support. He barely registers it when Sheppard slumps down the rest of the way and curls up on his side; it's only a change of perspective as Rodney slides off of him onto his back and strangely, he can taste snow and the clean flatness of jet fuel. The world is gilded, almost too bright to look at, and when he closes his eyes the gold is inside.
Atlantis is silent. There are no alarms, no slamming doors. The minute invasion breathes its way through open corridors, seeps inward and inward and the people fall.
Rodney's body rebels. His mouth opening with a gasp, he heaves in another breath and they sizzle and churn through him, in his blood now, he's sure. If he were to pull Sheppard's knife from its sheath at his back, if he were to draw it across his skin, he'd bleed liquid light. Against his wishes, the bellows of his lungs collapse and force out a gust of gold-dust, open, and the vacuum inside him is filled with more. For the first time in his life he wishes for anaphylaxis, and suddenly the taste of lemon is a keen blade across his tongue, so strong and real that his throat closes mid-breath.
His fingers scrabbling at the collar of his shirt, he thrashes a little, his hand spastically jerking at Sheppard's sleeve. But Sheppard can't help. His eyes snap open and he's clutching at his own throat with his free hand. So Rodney reaches the other way, wraps his fingers around Elizabeth's wrist and she lets out a thin, aborted wail. He turns to see her back arching off the floor as her mouth opens, breathless. Panic is sharp-edged in his brain, scatter-shot shrapnel.
And when everything is a bright tempest behind his eyes, the presence within them slows, pauses, hovers, and the lemon fades, is replaced by the sweet, blurry flavour of rum and something fragrant, with a hint of oil. The stabbing flashes of fear soften, become instead the fluttering dance of confetti. Although his eyes are open and gazing out at the blurred swath of Pegasus marking time against the watchface of more distant galaxies, what he sees is an upturned face and on her cheek is a tiny gold flake in the shape of a star. She's laughing, small, white teeth, and there are wispy ringlets along her neck. The music swirls around them as he takes the star with his fingertip.
"Donna Burns," Sheppard says, his voice a bemused whisper raspy with delicate grit. "Senior Prom."
Rodney doesn't know Donna Burns. But he knows the fragrant taste in his mouth is her lipstick.
He lies on his back and thinks of rum and lipstick and candy and Sheppard's mouth--anything but lemons--until they are all breathing gently on the balcony in the thinning wash of light. And by the time Pegasus has swept down into the clouds on the western horizon, they are able to sigh out nothing but clear air and the floor of the balcony is cold and hard against his tailbone.
With a small groan, Elizabeth rolls over--she has no angles at all, is a supple folding of weariness--and rests her forehead against his shoulder.
"What a trip," Sheppard observes with flat understatement, and his hand closes over Rodney's where it's still gripping his arm. Now Rodney can feel the cramp in his fingers. Expecting Sheppard to pull them away, he loosens his hold, but Sheppard squeezes with a gentle pressure and Rodney relaxes instead.
He's sure he doesn't sleep, but when he next opens his eyes, the sky overhead is blue and it's lonely inside his head.
^^end^^
Title: Lux, Lumen
Challenge: First Contact
Episodes: none
Pairing: none-ish
Warnings: none
Rating: G?
Note on the title: In medieval optical theory there is a distinction and analogical relation between "lux" which refers to spiritual light--Grace or, in a Platonic sense, the light of Reason--and "lumen" which refers to the physical light of the natural world.
The Firt Contact Challenge makes me *bounce*!!! Since aliens, and alien aliens are my favourite thing ever. Well, next to Rodney and John and Teyla and Elizabeth and Ford and Kate and Beckett and of course, Zelenka (more Kate please. More Zelenka please), so THANK YOU those who suggested it.
This is actually based on a dream I had, and you know how that can go, so I hope it makes sense enough.
Thank you to
agentotter for quick beta and for generally making me happy. This version's tweaked a bit, O.Lux, Lumen
They come in a slow unfurling, at first a haze, then a storm.
Right now they taste like those candies he always liked as a kid. The ones that crackled and sizzled on the tongue. Urban legend: if you chew the candy along with a mouthful of Coke your head will explode. Happened to a kid in Downsview. Everything happens to kids in Downsview.
"Pop-rocks," Rodney says, and the word tastes like fake grape flavour and sparks against the roof of his mouth. He doesn't want to, but he sucks in a deep breath and exhales a glittering cloud. He should feel the abrasion in his lungs and throat, because their light is jagged around the edges. Or maybe it's just him that's jagged around the edges. It's getting hard to tell. They are a clatter in his brain.
Rolling his head a little to the side, he squints through the blurring swirl of them, finds Elizabeth on her back, like him. When she looks at him, her eyes are gleaming like they're brimming with golden tears. She could be a seraphim, fallen into flesh, still molten with the memory of rapture. And like him she's breathing aliens.
On Rodney's other side, the Major is another kind of memory, a curve of resistance, knees up to his chest, hands pulled close and fisted, but uncurling now, slowly forgetting. His eyes aren't open. Rodney's hand fumbles across the floor and catches the sleeve of his jacket, then his arm, his fingers squeezing until they feel muscle, bone. He's surprised: he expects Sheppard to be held together by surface tension alone, poised for effervescence. Sheppard's eyes move under his closed lids, lashes making dancing, erratic shadows on his skin. He's made of glass, a hurricane lantern.
Rodney wonders if his own eyes are like Elizabeth's, seeping gold. He's afraid to raise his hand to check; he doesn't want his own tears to burn him. But they aren't hot, not really. Against his will, he breathes again, and this time the light tastes like Sheppard's mouth--honeybread and tuttle root. He's not sure how that's possible, or how he recognizes it.
Atlantis is lambent against a world of dark water, silent but for the sound of waves and laboured breathing and the steady thumping of Rodney's heart.
"Fireflies?" Elizabeth asks, turning to raise a questioning eyebrow at them and then leaning forward again over the balcony railing, the tense angle of her neck telling them that she's peering narrow-eyed into the distance. She rises up on her toes and yearns a little further, like the few inches would make the difference.
"Maybe," Sheppard agrees tentatively, but his forehead is creased and his eye is squinting up a bit with a half-wincing skeptical frown.
Over the water the glittering cloud could be one of the gauze-winged nebulae that wheel like vast clockworks into the night sky, except that this moves with the synchronized grace of a flock of sea birds, pacing its bright reflection on the becalmed sea, arcs and swerves that bring it closer and closer to Atlantis until the air around them begins to burn with a shifting orange-gold iridescence warmer than opals.
Elizabeth turns toward them and when she opens her mouth to speak a sparkling plume drifts from between her lips. "Rodney--" she says, and his name glitters and hangs in the air between them.
Taking a step toward them, she falters, sinks down with a hand held out to break her slow-motion fall. Beside him, Sheppard coughs out light and grabs his sleeve as he doubles over. Rodney can't hold him up, overbalances and tips forward on top of him, face against the nape of Sheppard's neck, and he should feel the warmth of skin and the tickling brush of hair, but he doesn't. He feels just like he did when he took Halcyon for a root canal. His eyes are open, but his body is conjectural, a leap of faith without empirical support. He barely registers it when Sheppard slumps down the rest of the way and curls up on his side; it's only a change of perspective as Rodney slides off of him onto his back and strangely, he can taste snow and the clean flatness of jet fuel. The world is gilded, almost too bright to look at, and when he closes his eyes the gold is inside.
Atlantis is silent. There are no alarms, no slamming doors. The minute invasion breathes its way through open corridors, seeps inward and inward and the people fall.
Rodney's body rebels. His mouth opening with a gasp, he heaves in another breath and they sizzle and churn through him, in his blood now, he's sure. If he were to pull Sheppard's knife from its sheath at his back, if he were to draw it across his skin, he'd bleed liquid light. Against his wishes, the bellows of his lungs collapse and force out a gust of gold-dust, open, and the vacuum inside him is filled with more. For the first time in his life he wishes for anaphylaxis, and suddenly the taste of lemon is a keen blade across his tongue, so strong and real that his throat closes mid-breath.
His fingers scrabbling at the collar of his shirt, he thrashes a little, his hand spastically jerking at Sheppard's sleeve. But Sheppard can't help. His eyes snap open and he's clutching at his own throat with his free hand. So Rodney reaches the other way, wraps his fingers around Elizabeth's wrist and she lets out a thin, aborted wail. He turns to see her back arching off the floor as her mouth opens, breathless. Panic is sharp-edged in his brain, scatter-shot shrapnel.
And when everything is a bright tempest behind his eyes, the presence within them slows, pauses, hovers, and the lemon fades, is replaced by the sweet, blurry flavour of rum and something fragrant, with a hint of oil. The stabbing flashes of fear soften, become instead the fluttering dance of confetti. Although his eyes are open and gazing out at the blurred swath of Pegasus marking time against the watchface of more distant galaxies, what he sees is an upturned face and on her cheek is a tiny gold flake in the shape of a star. She's laughing, small, white teeth, and there are wispy ringlets along her neck. The music swirls around them as he takes the star with his fingertip.
"Donna Burns," Sheppard says, his voice a bemused whisper raspy with delicate grit. "Senior Prom."
Rodney doesn't know Donna Burns. But he knows the fragrant taste in his mouth is her lipstick.
He lies on his back and thinks of rum and lipstick and candy and Sheppard's mouth--anything but lemons--until they are all breathing gently on the balcony in the thinning wash of light. And by the time Pegasus has swept down into the clouds on the western horizon, they are able to sigh out nothing but clear air and the floor of the balcony is cold and hard against his tailbone.
With a small groan, Elizabeth rolls over--she has no angles at all, is a supple folding of weariness--and rests her forehead against his shoulder.
"What a trip," Sheppard observes with flat understatement, and his hand closes over Rodney's where it's still gripping his arm. Now Rodney can feel the cramp in his fingers. Expecting Sheppard to pull them away, he loosens his hold, but Sheppard squeezes with a gentle pressure and Rodney relaxes instead.
He's sure he doesn't sleep, but when he next opens his eyes, the sky overhead is blue and it's lonely inside his head.
^^end^^
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 03:40 pm (UTC)Or maybe it's just him that's jagged around the edges. It's getting hard to tell.
//sighs// You should be writing *me* fic ;-p
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 08:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 03:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 09:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 05:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 09:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 05:16 pm (UTC)Love that line. Such a great capture of that feeling of being separated from your own body.
I'm curious - were all the sensations coming from Rodney or John (or going between the two of them)? Elizabeth was there, but it didn't seem like any of the memories/associations were coming from her.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 06:25 pm (UTC)You're right, though, some more balance is probably required there.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 06:04 pm (UTC)As always, I love the way you use language.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 09:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 09:25 pm (UTC)Isn't it lovely? It's by
Very cool
Date: 2005-04-12 07:46 pm (UTC)Must echo whoever else said it before me. The above is a tremendously excellent and wonderful sentence.
Loved this story. Brilliant use of language. Not a word out of place or wasted. :)
Re: Very cool
Date: 2005-04-12 09:01 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked the story.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 07:52 pm (UTC)Absolutely a brilliant line. The story itself is utterly gorgeous, although I enjoyed it more on the second read-through having read your comments on it. Working Elizabeth in more would definitely help make it clearer, I think, but I'm going to go enjoy rereading it again as is. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 09:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 08:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 09:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 08:24 pm (UTC)Although his eyes are open and gazing out at the blurred swath of Pegasus marking time against the watchface of more distant galaxies, what he sees is an upturned face and on her cheek is a tiny gold flake in the shape of a star. She's laughing, small, white teeth, and there are wispy ringlets along her neck. The music swirls around them as he takes the star with his fingertip.
Wow...just amazing.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 09:04 pm (UTC)I'm very glad you found it so! *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 11:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 11:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 11:08 pm (UTC)and this: "She could be a seraphim, fallen into flesh, still molten with the memory of rapture. And like him she's breathing aliens." is so perfect.
this whole sentence is delicious: "until the air around them begins to burn with a shifting orange-gold iridescence warmer than opals."
the pattern of rodney reaching out to touch john and elizabeth is remarkable. each of them seeking to deepen their anchor in each other.
this is splendid. *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-12 11:44 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 12:13 am (UTC)the anchoring images informed the process of loating away. and as a result when i read it, the concrete ways he sought to anchor himself became "writ large". the sensations and images seemed to loom large in his cognitive horizon in a very good way.
so yes, it worked very well.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 03:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 04:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 01:16 pm (UTC)cool
B
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 04:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 04:20 pm (UTC)His eyes are open, but his body is conjectural
The alien cloud and the description of their breathing and the shared trip, just lovely.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 05:00 pm (UTC)For the first time in his life he wishes for anaphylaxis, and suddenly the taste of lemon is a keen blade across his tongue, so strong and real that his throat closes mid-breath.
It is very arresting.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-13 08:38 pm (UTC)My favorite lines:
--She could be a seraphim, fallen into flesh, still molten with the memory of rapture. And like him she's breathing aliens.<
--Beside him, Sheppard coughs out light
----she has no angles at all, is a supple folding of weariness--
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-14 04:20 am (UTC)I feel pop-rocks and tense spines and molten tears and a wheeling flock of fireflies against the stars.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-14 06:18 pm (UTC)This felt like it was taking place two dimensions over. So many words I don't usually hear, in unusual conjunction. It was so very far removed from actual perception, no guidelines to hold on to, it completely enveloped me and took me with them on the trip.
Have you ever read 'Solaris' by Stanislaw Lem? Like that, only better.
I liked how Rodney turns it all into something bad and frightening, and how John makes it all good.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-20 11:57 pm (UTC)wow
Date: 2005-08-14 11:03 pm (UTC)Sheppard's eyes move under his closed lids, lashes making dancing, erratic shadows on his skin. He's made of glass, a hurricane lantern.
"Rodney--" she says, and his name glitters and hangs in the air between them.
If he were to pull Sheppard's knife from its sheath at his back, if he were to draw it across his skin, he'd bleed liquid light.
This was all so lovely and so beautifully alien, in every way. The imagery is just brilliant, and I love the idea that Rodney loves pop-rocks.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-04 12:05 pm (UTC)Lux, Lumen
Date: 2006-02-24 03:05 am (UTC)