Man or Monster 1/2 by kodiak bear [Gods and Monsters challenge]

[kodiak-bear.livejournal.com]

Title: Man or Monster
Author: kodiak bear
Cat: slash
Pairing: Rodney/John
Word Count: 11,800
Rating: R
Genre: angst
Warnings: set in season 4, in the nebulous time after Teyla reveals her pregnancy but before the mess with Michael begins.
Summary: Man is often motivated by two emotions: love and hate. Both emotions can drive men to do monstrous things.





Man or Monster




They say our Gods are monsters. They kill, destroy, spread fear and death; they do evil and make no excuse and ask for no mercy. They believe we should shun our Gods, turn our backs, though we bear no illusion what the cost of such an act would be. Gods have the power over life and death. On their whim, it can be lost or gained. Who would anger Gods? Who would court their own demise by saying 'you are not worthy of our worship'?

I know we are looked at with loathing; we are both hated and feared. We are our Gods' forward hands and eyes. We have turned many or just as certainly given them over to a cruel fate. In the end, it is always the Gods' choice.

This village is like many. It is dirty, poor. Their lives are spent trembling, fearing the future. Will they come today? Tomorrow? Will I die? Will my mother, father, sister, die? The few that fight live only long enough to know the truth of inevitability.

They say we could win. If we helped them. If we gave them the information and technology they seek. They say that it will give us protection and we can stop worshiping these monsters. Do they realize the trail of destruction they have left? The endless tendrils of disaster that they have spread like a virulent plague through our worlds?

He kneels in the hall, hands bound behind his back, still groggy. I am disturbed at what his presence, and those of his people, has brought to our worlds, and what he promises; but also because I know the truth he has ignored. “You are foolish, Colonel Sheppard, to believe I could act in any way other than I am. And I do not know whether to admire that foolishness or pity it.”

He pierces me with his glare. “Don't do this. You'll regret it.”

“They say you are a prize worth a lifetime of safety. Lifetimes. Do you know what that means?” I grip my staff tighter. “Do you see?”

“That you are even stupider than the wraith. Do this,” he says, staring at me evenly, “and your people will be wiped off the face of this planet.”

“This?” I say, incredulous. “This is not my world, Colonel. I heard of your alliance and I came to do my duty. The people of this village hover beyond these walls. Do you see the help they would give? They stand, afraid. They do not save you; instead, they cower and give you in their place. That is what you are striving so hard to save.”

He laughs at me with a soft shake of his head. For some reason, that small act of defiance burns. I strike him before I can stay my anger. He rocks under the blow, slipping sideways, and when he rights himself, blood drips from his ear.

“Usually they like to start with my gut first. Guess knocking the breath out of me is the quickest way to shut me up.” His eyes smolder along with his anger despite the flippant comment. He moves his neck, stretching. “Just an FYI.”

“Get up,” I order.

“I'd rather not.”

Again, my staff whips forward, this time coming down brutally on his shoulders. I have forced my anger away and face him now with contemptible coldness. He is a means to an end and I will not see him as anything else. “That is not an option,” I say flatly.

Perhaps he reads my resolve. Or perhaps he is plotting, planning for an escape. Either way he rises, stumbling awkwardly, until he stands in front of me, defiant. I find myself standing so close I can feel his breath on my face. I am overcome by what this man represents. What he has come from and where he has gone. “You think you are better than me? You are so sure of the choices you would have made in my place?”

Venom drips between us. How could it not? He has come from a place where Gods do not haunt and kill. And he would judge us?

“You're damn right I wouldn't.” He tugs at his bindings. “Turning on your people to save your own hide.”

“These aren't my people!”

“Look around you,” he snarls. “You have the same skin, the same DNA! You're human, just like they are, and you're giving them over to die in your place.” His voice draws quieter. “I wouldn't do it. I couldn't.”

“Liar,” I whisper. No one is that selfless. No one values their life that little. Or those that they love. I bring my staff down against his struggling wrists, slapping them mercilessly with hard wood. All he's done is tighten the leather and chafe the skin until it weeps. “Stop!” I grab his arm and push him forward. We have a journey to make and it is not growing less.

~*~

Traveling through the ring is quick. It is once we are on the other side, that the true work begins. My world has a ring, but it is damaged, and for reasons we do not know, it will only connect to three worlds. One is poisonous and will kill you within minutes if you are stupid enough to stay. The second is a world filled with water. The ring there is on a mountaintop and it is only a matter of years they say, before it topples into the vast sea surrounding it. The third is on this world, dry and harsh, and with two rings, set days apart. The ring that delivers us here from my world will not connect elsewhere. It is necessary to travel to the second ring and only then can you breach the system in the stars that allows everyone else access to one another.

The sun bakes you as you walk, the wind, scours. There is a series of three wells, hidden and spaced as close together as the underground water allows. If you are careful, you can survive the trek. If not, your bones will bleach, sand will drift, hiding them, until one day, some unlucky traveler will trip and discover your fate. There were so many unfortunate souls that the crossing had come to be known as the stairway of bones.

“Nice world you've got here.”

I ignore him. From the large bag slung over my shoulders, I pull a long piece of white cloth. I wind it over my head and around my face. It hangs free, allowing me room to breathe, but shields my eyes and skin from the damaging sun.

“Don't suppose I could get one of those.”

Shoving him forward, I start us on the path to the first well. I know it'll be after nightfall. The time has not worked out in our favor. You do not travel during the day if you can avoid it. The sun is too punishing. But there is no shelter to be had and waiting by the ring till sunset would do nothing but deplete our bodies of the precious water we have. We will need to get to the first station, rest the remainder of the night and the next day, then press on. It will delay us but I do not wish to die here and remaining on the other world was not an option.

It is two hours into the march, that he speaks. “I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess they want me alive.”

He guesses right, of course. Any idiot would know the Gods want him alive. Colonel Sheppard is the key to a great many things. Some of the Gods have had him and lost him. Some of them have even been stupid enough to think to kill him. But my Gods, the ones I serve, are not so short-sighted. They do not tell me everything, but I have ears. I listen. I know they want him and they badly want him alive.

“Cause if you don't give me something to cover up with, I'm gonna burn. And I don't think you've got medicine to keep me alive if I burn bad enough.”

He's too placid, speaking self-assuredly. As if I have no other choice than to care for him. I could let him die. And as I stare at his pinking skin and see tell-tale signs of sun exhaustion, I am sorely tempted. He woke them. He brought them back. Our Gods had been sleeping! They were content to wake only once in a generation. Appeasing them was as easy as finding those unworthy of the life they had been given. But now I had had to leave my home, sacrifice my family. I had traveled across dangerous worlds. All so I could find him. And he wants me to save him? Even when, if he lives, he must know it will not be pleasant. He has to know what the Gods will do to him.

“Why do you wish to live?” Curiosity creeps into my voice and I scowl, because I want to be an impenetrable wall. I know letting him see too much is dangerous. “They will hurt you; they will do terrible things to you. It would be a mercy if I were to let you die now.”

He shrugs. “As long as I'm alive, I have a chance. They'll find me.”

I swing my staff, catching him behind his knees and dropping him to the ground. I'm rewarded by a muffled groan.

“Son of...what the hell was that for?”

“You have no chance. Chance left you the moment I captured you.” I dig into my bag and withdraw another cloth. Resentment brews in my belly. I am none too gentle, wrapping his head, but I do leave him room to breathe and see. When I am finished, I yank him to his feet. “Walk.”

~*~


As I walk, I see signs of recent travelers. The few scrub bushes that eke out a living are disturbed and I see one that has been kicked up entirely, its roots exposed. There are tracks that I read as someone having been dragged. I know there are mercenaries that work from world to world. They seek that which is not theirs. Technology, people, it matters not; if they can find a buyer, they will take it. It is possible that they could have taken this route to gain access to my world. We have made it known we are interested in information regarding the Lanteans. Perhaps they have even caught one of them.

But there are also creatures on this world, sand worms, and they are larger than a human and very deadly. They live under the sands, burrowing and swimming, until they catch the scent of prey. Then they rise up, hovering over you, and they will spit. Their saliva blinds their victim, causing dizziness and disorientation. Usually they do not travel this far north of the ring, but it is possible, and I would be careless to discard that possibility.

“Someone's been here,” Sheppard says.

“They won't be your savior.” I pause at the top of the dune we had just climbed. I let the air still around me, ignore the exercise-induced thumping of my heart. I sniff the air, checking for the scent of the sand worms. Death – they smell like decay. And I smell nothing but our sweat.

He doesn't respond and I wish he had. I want to beat him down, punish him. If he has any hope left, I want to bury it.

The afternoon passes, the sun traverses the sky; I am dizzy with lack of water. Sheppard stumbles and I bring my staff down against his back. “Do not fall; I will not waste my energy picking you up.”

He spins, almost unbalancing because of his arms still tied behind his back, and faces me, his anger radiating off him. “What the hell is it with you?”

In reply, I swing the staff around, hard, and whip it against his belly. He doubles over, grunting from the hurt. I smile. “Shut up.” That is what he said earlier, was it not? It takes him a moment to straighten. He has no hand to press against the pain. He coughs and breathes harshly. “Walk.” I order. “Do no talk. It wastes energy.”

He coughs again and rasps, “Didn't know you cared.”

I do not know whether to hit him again or laugh; his mouth is going to give him more bruises than he can sleep with. I settle for pushing him. He cannot keep his balance and tumbles forward, falling to his knees; he loses his balance altogether and rolls down the other side of the dune. I watch his perilous fall before sliding my way towards him.

Though I said otherwise, I haul him to his feet. It is only because I lack the patience to wait while he struggles up on his own. But then I set a grueling pace that has my breath coming hard and fast and sweat running down the sides of my face and back. I want to get to the well. It is built upon a platform of stone and my people have maintained the wooden walls that surround it; it is the only shelter to be had and the only safe place from the worms.

We reach it three hours after sunset. I feel so sunsick I am surprised I can stand. Sheppard's eyes are only half-open. He has stumbled more than not. It has been hotter than usual and twice I had caught the scent of death and sped up our already torturous gait.

I push the door open, grimacing at the sudden noise. For hours, the only sounds had been our own. Now the creak of swollen wood squeals too loud. Sheppard stands dumbly by my side. “Get in.”

He tries, but falls more than walks, and does not move from where he lands except to try and roll off his arm. I stare at his wrists. Where they bled sand has accumulated and rubbed, and now I can't see the skin from the leather. Angry at him, I kneel and pull my knife from my belt.

He watches, his eyes following the knife. But he does not speak. It makes me madder. I consider slipping, letting the edge of the blade brush against his arm, instead of the leather, slick with his blood. He is to blame for so much that is wrong. On his shoulders, so much death rests – and here he is, staring at me, his eyes not giving in to the fear I want to see. I slice the leather and toss the blade aside, punching him across the temple. “Why do you not fear me?” I demand, climbing away from him.

If he has an answer, it is lost in his misery at finally being freed.

I draw water and drink deeply from the bucket. It tastes terrible, stagnant and warm. I have often wondered how far down one would have to go, to reach cooler water. I know it exists. It has to. The sun cannot penetrate forever. But in each well, it stays stubbornly hot and it is like drinking daylight. I drink another bucketful. Then I draw again and carry it to Sheppard, kicking him in the leg. “Sit up if you want to drink. I care not.”

“Imagine what it'd be like if you did,” he chokes, pushing himself up. With stiff movements, he tugs off the cloth, freeing his head, and reaches greedily for the bucket.

I watch dispassionately as he drinks it all and holds it out to me. More. He wants more. I take it and return to the pump, drawing up another, then returning it to him. He is weak, not the great Colonel Sheppard I have heard so much about. He cannot even take a beating and a long, hot walk. His wrists are disgusting. I get more water and come back to him; I pull strips of cotton from my bag and a satchel of herbs that I mix into the water. When I reach for his arm, he flinches away.

“Do you want them to rot?”

“No offense, but I've felt your 'caring',” he says, his mouth twisting, “maybe I'd rather risk it.”

“That is not your choice.” I grab again, this time latching on, and I twist his arm around to expose the worst of the damage. I wet the cloth and scrub the wounds. He fights to control his pain, but I see it in his eyes and I hear it in his breaths. “I told you to stop fighting. This is what happens when you do not listen.”

He rolls his head and looks at the stars through the beams overhead. “Everyone's always telling me that.”

I thrust his hands into the bucket, immersing them half-way to the elbow. I had mixed in killweed, a potent disinfectant. Though it will bring tears to the eyes of the strongest of men back home, it will prevent any infection from taking hold. I savor the shock that flickers across his face just before the wave of pain crashes through him, makes him sway. “Crap.” It's breathy and quiet. Weak. And then I see his eyes roll up in his head and realize he's finally reached the end of his endurance... I let him collapse, falling sideways, and remove the bucket.

“Pain,” I tell him, “is at least feeling. Be lucky I grant you that much.”

~*~

Though I am exhausted, I cannot find sleep. I rinse the bucket several times. Killweed is very toxic. If there are traces left in the bucket, the next to drink will grow sick and die. Then I sit across the room from Sheppard and watch him. When I grow sleepy, I will tie him. But for now, I marvel at how easy he had been to catch. He had come alone, responding to a call from the people of Marianna; a simple request to explain in further detail the defensive weapons. They had been allies – had; they would not be any longer, I imagine. When I had learned of it, I traveled there and told them how it would be. Cooperate, get me John Sheppard, or lose your lives.

How naïve Sheppard and his people are, to think they are safe. It has been luck, till now, that has kept them from harm. Nothing else. Nothing less. My Gods have stayed quiet, letting so many of the others fight amongst themselves, kill one another after another. They are the strong ones and they will be the victorious ones. My people will never be free. All we can hope for is to appease our Gods, feed their wants. If they got John Sheppard, they got the portal to another place. One that could feed the Gods for eternity.

He judges me for turning on him, and the others. But he can never know the rage of having your husband taken from you with one hand while another is held against the chest of your child. He can never know the agony of accepting the inevitable. They are Gods; monstrous Gods. And they can never be stopped. It infuriates me, that he believes otherwise. That he feels his people can do what everyone else has failed to do.

He promised they would come for him; I said 'they will not find you'.

It is almost pity that stirs in me, as I watch him sleep. Pity that almost touches the burning anger fueled by my loss and my helplessness. I rise and tie him, surprised that he doesn't stir while I do. I sleep but it is poor and, when I wake, my eyes are gritty and puffy. He is watching me. His face has swollen and the bandages I wrapped around his wrists are stained rust-brown. His black uniform is dusty and torn on the knee.

“Don't suppose there's room service?” he quips.

“Room service?” One sentence and he already makes me angry. “If you mean someone feeding you, no.” I push myself to my feet and dig out two hard loaves of travel bread. I toss one at him. I had tied his legs and one arm to the cross-beam. With his free arm he takes it and grimaces. “That's the last time I bitch about an MRE.”

“Still believe your friends will find you?” I taunt, taking a bite of my bread.

His eyes glitter across from me. “You bet,” he promises, more emotion behind those two words than I expect. “Listen, you don't have to do this. Let me go and I'll walk away, forget I ever saw you.”

In a flash, I am up. My bread falls to the ground and I have my staff in hand, swinging it savagely against his shins. I breathe hard, rage returning full force, as I kneel over him and push the wood against his chest, driving him against the wall. “Do not think to do me a favor. You forgetting me is the least of my worries!” I push hard, one last time, shoving myself away in the same motion.

I am shaking; where is the ice in my veins that I so need? Why does he get under my skin so badly?

Disgusted, I kick away my bread, now coated in sand. I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulders. I slide my knife free from the sheath and quickly sever the ties to the beam. “Get up.”

He is angry; I have hurt him, spurned his overtures. He reaches out the arms of truce and I break them. “Get. Up.” I am stone.

His nostrils flare, but he rises. “What, no more leather? You're slipping.”

I punch him in the nose and am spitefully pleased when he has to pinch down to stem the flow of blood.

“Maybe not,” he grunts.

“There is a sand worm stalking us. If it catches us, we will be lucky to live.” I move to the well and fill up the two skins I had brought. “Do not try to stop or it will kill you. Do not try to run from me, or you will die. You do not know the signs and you do not know the way.”

“So what. They're gonna kill me anyway.” He sniffs and tests his nose. “If you don't beat them to it.”

“I thought you wanted to live?”

“Yeah, well, I'm beginning to change my mind.”

I storm by him, check the night air for worm sign. It is out there, but the scent is muted. It is off hunting easier prey, for now. I glance at him. Though he has said one thing, his face says another. John Sheppard has not given up; not yet. I am surprised at the thrill that races through me because of it. He is a challenge and for the first time in a long time, I am feeling something beyond numbness. I could almost love him for bringing me that. Almost.

The going is easier than a day and a half ago. It is cool at night, enough that the head wraps remain tucked in my bag, and any sweat that does rise to the skin, is chilled by the winds that blow fiercer when the sun sets. Though the glow of the sun can barely be seen below the horizon, the stars are only allowed a pale light, competing ineffectually with the sun's invisible reach. It never gets dark here, not totally, at least.

There is a scream somewhere in the distance behind us. Sheppard jerks and stops. “What the hell is that?”

I shove him forward. “Worm's lunch. Move.”

Most of the life on this planet knows to avoid the open areas. But eventually, everything must risk it, for one reason or another. The scream most likely came from a dog-like animal. They roam in packs, not because they care for one another, but because the odds of being the one to escape the worm is higher when there is more of you. In many ways, they are like everyone else.

I can see he is fighting to keep quiet. I hope he fails. My knuckles whiten around the staff. His eyes track to it and I see his expression harden. He turns his back to me and starts walking again.

Time passes; I drink from one water skin and give the other to Sheppard. He has begun to recover from the other day and from the injuries I have given him. I figured he would. His need for water is his mistake and minutes after drinking, he is stumbling and slurs, “What'd you do?”

“If I can not bind you, I must keep you under control in some other way.” He trips over his own feet and falls to his knees. I swear under my breath; I was afraid this would happen. It is hard to guess at the right dosage. One in which he can still move, but not resist. I should have just bound his wrists, ignoring the damage doing so again would have caused. It is his own fault for ignoring me before and trying to get free. I thread an arm under his and yank him back to his feet. He is unsteady and his eyes are glazed from the drug. There is no other choice. Either I help him or the worm comes.

“Just... go,” he rasps, fumbling to speak through clumsy lips. “I'm not worth the trouble. Trust me.”

“You are right.” I curse the day I set out after him, as I try to navigate the dark and the sand. “But I do not do this for you.”


~*~

We reach the next shelter as the sun rises. I ache. Sheppard has been a dead weight for most of the night and I happily dump him to the hard, sand-strewn floor. Pain lances through my belly and I gasp, doubling over. It takes too many moments to catch my breath and straighten, and when I do, I find Sheppard staring.

“You shouldn't be doing this.” He fights to sit against the wall. It takes a lot but he gets there. “Who the hell sends someone—”

“I was not sent,” I snap, “I volunteered.” He is talking too much again and, holding a hand against my stomach, I lunge forward and knock him sideways with my staff. “Shut up or next time you get it in your gut again.”

Water. I need water. I turn and stagger to the bucket, pumping hurriedly and drinking first one, then another. The pain subsides and I breathe deep, relieved.

He is quiet, but not subdued. I can tell anger is growing. I can see it in his eyes when I look again.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because my Gods demand it.” I dig out more bread and toss him one before sitting across from him, relief passing over me; we made it. Two more and we will reach the ring. I chew and study him. “They want you,” I say, conversationally. “More than anything.”

“I'm a popular guy.” He lets his head flop back against the rough wood. “Just my luck.”

He says things I do not fully understand, but his tone, his facial expressions, I can guess at the meaning. I say nothing more and he is wise enough to do the same. After we finish, I look at his wrists. The swelling is worse and fresh sand has worked its way into the leather-torn grooves. He sees where my eyes are focused and he tucks his wrists into his sleeves. “They're fine.”

They are not but I am almost tired enough to let him have his way. Two days. They would grow worse and as much as I hate this man, I cannot let infection take hold, putrefying his skin. I prepare the bucket and approach with staff in one hand and bucket in the other. “I will hit you if you make one wrong move.”

His defiance is restrained, but visible. He sticks his arms into the blistering water and manages not to pass out from the pain. I pat them dry and re-bandage them. I realize I have forgotten to get him drinking water. I rinse the bucket and even do so an extra time, just to make sure I am not subconsciously risking his life. Emotions can drive you, if you let them catch you unaware.

“Rodney better not say one damn word about the hot girl this time,” he mutters, inhaling sharply as I press too hard when I grab his wrist to give him the bucket.

“Drink,” I order.

He looks at me over the wooden rim. “Is it drugged?”

“Would it matter?” Here a body needed water like it needed blood.

“Guess not,” he says, shaking his head. “John, you are in deep—”

I shove his head towards the bucket. “Drink.”

I walk away, getting rope. The water is not drugged but by the time night falls, he might wish it was. He is more alert and spending the day tied to a beam will not be enjoyable. But even if I cared about his comfort, I am too tired to stay awake, and I cannot risk him getting loose. He tries to surprise me, but I expect it. I knee him in his groin and twist viciously against his wrist, slapping it against the beam. It is far enough, high enough, he cannot reach it with his free hand. I tie his feet together and then tie that to the beam. It is an awkward position. Even if he can somehow manage to free his feet, he will not be able to manage his other arm; at least not without waking me. I sleep lightly.


When I wake, the sun is setting. I go outside to relieve myself and I know I am in trouble. Blood. My belly is tight and full of pain. Two days, I tell myself. Two days. And then I can take my rest, knowing I did what was necessary. The Gods will bless me, my family, my world. They will return my child to me. They are Gods.

I untie Sheppard and take him out; he has gotten used to my watching. At this point, he is thankful enough when I allow him to do so. But it is one more push against the bellows flaming the fire that is growing within him. He is swiftly learning to hate me as well.

“We have a long night ahead; do not talk to me. I will not drug you. Make one wrong move and I will beat you senseless.” I know I cannot drag his weight another night.

“Just... tell me one thing?” He zips his pants and takes the water skin from me.

When I do not hit him, he takes it for confirmation that he can continue. “What's your name?”

My name? He risks being hit for my name? I gape at him. “Are you stupid?”

He is taken aback. “What, no one's ever asked you your name before?”

“I could make you see double for asking. I said not to talk.”

“You could.” He brushes his sleeve against his forehead. “But you didn't.”

I do not see the harm in telling him; in fact, the opposite. I wish for Sheppard to know the name of his captor, his torturer. “Genevieve. Now walk. The worm is still trailing us. It waits for us to make one wrong step.” Actually, that is not the exact truth. The worm waits for the prey to stop. It is slow and ponderous. It cannot outrun a human. If you walk, if you do not stop, you can stay alive. It is when you cannot that you are a moment away from death.

His forehead wrinkles as he mouthes my name. “Pretty name,” he says, “for such a sadistic bitch.”

“Bitch?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

I hit him across his shoulders and smile at the pained grunt it elicits.

He is wisely quiet, after that. And I am strangely disappointed.

It is only half-past the early morning hours, when the pain strikes me again. I fight to stay on my feet but only make it another step. Tears threaten to spill. It is like knives twisting in my gut. For a moment, I am down, vulnerable. I gasp for breath and expect the killing blow from Sheppard. When the pain recedes and I am able to see again, it is his face next to mine; concern has warred with his hate, and without thinking, I bring the staff around and knock his feet out from under him, pinning him across his chest with my torso. I have no such problem. “You fool,” I swear, “you could have bought your safety.”

He grabs the staff and pushes back, but I have him now. He breathes hard, seething. “Not with your life.”

“You could have ran.”

He laughs humorously. “Where?”

I did not blind fold him before, because he knows he cannot read the desert signs. Only my people know the way, and those that we have trusted with the secrets. To anyone else, you would see only an endless sea of sand, broken by waves of dunes and scattered rock in random places across the surface.

It is then that the smell strikes me. It hits with such terrifying force, I pale. “Run!” I pull the staff from his chest, struggling to get to my own feet. Death hangs in the air around us. The growl trails the smell; it is like an unending threat from an animal waiting to tear out your throat. He is confused, still lying in place. I swallow bile and bend awkwardly to pull him up. Sand erupts around us, stinging my skin. “Cover your face and run!” I am already burrowing my own underneath my shirt. I can feel the gusts of cold air against my exposed waist and navel. If he hears, I do not know. I keep pulling him. In the heat of the moment, my desire to hurt him vanishes. My anger evaporates. Survival overrides everything else.

I hear the sound of liquid splashing. I feel it against my back. Seconds later, Sheppard hollers in pain. I keep pulling him. I keep pulling him until we reach the third well. I shove him inside and close the door behind us, collapsing to my knees. I cannot stop the tide of physical consequences and barely manage to crawl to the side before I throw up.

My legs tremble, my chest burns. I wipe at the snot dripping from my nose. I wish for nothing else but to lie down and quit. To curl up and just let death have me. But I have done this for a reason and giving up now would mean everything was for nothing. And that is not something I can accept. It is a while before I find my feet, though, and when I do, I am not steady. But it is then that I find Sheppard on the floor, senseless and blind. His eyes are squeezed shut, the skin blistered, his face, red. He is mumbling to himself, calling for Rodney. Doctor Rodney McKay, the other man on my list, the one I have planned to retrieve next.

All Sheppard wants, is his friend. It is one bucket of water on a raging fire. I kneel by him and restrain his hands from rubbing his eyes. “Do that and it will be permanent.” I do not know why it should bother me; my Gods simply said alive. They would not care if he were blind.

“Burns,” he gasps.

“Badly,” I agree. I know of few survivors. Those that had, had scratched their eyes to the point where they never were any good afterwards. I press his hands down to his sides, not caring that I caused more pain because of his wrists. “Do not move them. If you do, I will hit you until you pass out.”

It is a battle for him, but he believes me. His hands remain by his side, though his fingers curl into claws. The bucket fills slowly. When it is full enough, I make my way to him and demand, “Open your eyes. Keep them open.”

His head rolls back and forth, his upper torso moving with it, and he fights to do what I am telling him. I let the bucket drop, take my staff and press against his chest until he is gasping for air. “Do what I say, or I will kill you.”

The fact that I mean it is not lost on him. Alive or dead, I will deliver him. The Gods want him alive, I know this, and I am doing my best. But his life means nothing to me and I know also that my life means nothing to them. He manages to still himself and I release the pressure. I meant to dump the entire bucketful at once into his eyes. The pain would have been very great. But instead of pouring, I tip, and I let the water splash lightly against my arms, deflecting some of the force. It still causes him to thrash hard enough that I have to put the bucket down and grab his head, holding it like a vise. Then, cupping water with my hand, I continue to rinse his eyes. His moans go on and on and on.

When I finally believe I have done all I can, I roll off him. My belly is on fire. It leaves me panting and wasted beside him.

~*~

I wake to sun splaying across my face, beams of light creeping through the slatted roof. I fight against the panic rising. When I roll, pushing myself up, I see Sheppard still there, curled in on himself, shivering. My mouth is so dry, my tongue feels glued to the top. Water. I need water. I crawl to the pump and grab the bucket, dragging it towards me. Sand grinds underneath it. I can only drink a bucketful before I fall forward, heaving.

Fury burns through me. I toss the bucket aside and crawl to Sheppard, kicking him. “Wake up! You need to drink or you will die.” There is one more well till the ring and if I have to crawl, dragging him the entire way, I will. Or I will die trying.

He rouses, but his eyes are so swollen he can no longer see. “Tell me,” he rasps, “this will wear off.”

I am surprised at the pleading I hear. He tries to mask it, but I hear it anyway. “If you are lucky,” I answer flatly.

He chuckles, his mouth twisting into an ugly line. “Then I guess I'm screwed.”

“You give up so easily.” I get the bucket for him, though I do not know why. He could have felt for it. “Here. Drink.”

“I'm not giving up,” he denies, angry. “They're coming for me.”

“That is what you said two days ago.”

His throat works; he pants through the effort of sitting. “Yeah, well, it's just taking them a little longer.”

I make a disbelieving sound.

“You know, you take us out there tonight, we're gonna die.”

“Shut up.”

I already know he is right. I feel like screaming. Kicking something. I turn to him, but he cannot see me. He cannot see it coming and I cannot see the fear in his eyes, so I turn and kick the wall. It is only because kicking him is pointless, that I chose a different target.

I am trapped. If we go now, it will be a miracle if we make it to the final well and the ring. If we stay, I will not make it. I know that. The pain has grown worse, coming in waves that grow increasingly closer together. I take him outside and we both do what we must, then return to the shelter. I have three chunks of bread left. I give him one and try to eat another, but I manage two bites before my stomach churns queasily.

“The last time I met one of you guys, she asked me about my world.”

I stare stonily at the wall. “I do not care about your world.”

He fishes in the air with his hands, searching for the bucket. I nudge it forward with my boot. And frown. He touches it with his fingers and pulls it eagerly forward, sloshing water across his legs. He drinks and sets it aside. The skin under his eyes has grown redder and the blisters are weeping. He breathes raggedly; he is suffering a great deal. He clears his throat. “There's clowns,” he says.

I pick up my discarded bread and throw it at his head. It bounces off his brow, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. He yelps, swears. “Okay,” he finally chokes, “no on the clowns.”

Another pain takes hold and leaves me senseless.

The afternoon heat snakes in; he drifts, the pain subduing his tongue when nothing else will. I drift for the same reason. We drink when we wake and I do not tie him, knowing that he understands certain death waits if he tries to leave. He could try and take my knife and kill me, but he does not. I almost wish he would. Instead, he stays across the room, shivering when he gets overwhelmed by the agony of the worm's saliva.

Sometime in the night, my pains become so severe, so crippling, I can no longer hold back the groans. I am desperate for it to end. I know it is too late now. I did not make it in time.

Even though the sun retreats, and the heat abates, sweat slicks my skin. My thighs are wet. Through the skirt, they tremble. I am falling into an abyss and it has all been for nothing.

When a dry hand grabs mine, I am pulled out of my internal world, shocked by the contact. Reflexively, I strike, feeling the solid contact of my knuckles against flesh. Sheppard grunts but effortlessly latches on to my hand and forces it down. “From where I'm sitting, you're in a lot of trouble,” he growls. “I don't know why I'm willing to help; maybe it's because of Teyla – but whatever the reason, you should be thanking your lucky stars and not punching the shit out of me.”

I laugh, hysterical. “You are blind, fool! What help can you give me?”

“You better hope it's enough.” I hear him filling a bucket. “And my name's John. Not fool, idiot or any other four-letter word you care to think up.”

“I will kill you,” I promise.

He chuckles mirthlessly. “I don't doubt it.” My skirt is hiked around my waist and I feel the dry, impersonal touch. I would kick him now, but for the fear gripping me. “Oh crap, I can feel the head.”

My pain twists and I am overcome with a guttural urge. Panting, I push, push against the onslaught of ripping agony. I have been through this before, I know the only end is to push even when the screams are torn from my mouth. Sheppard presses on my belly and shouts, “Push, come on, damn it! Where's that mean little --”

Heat suffuses my face and I want to hit him so bad I taste it. I push, hard, forcing every bit of that rage into my muscles. I will not die here; I will not let Sheppard see me fail. I feel it when the babe's head is born; a popping relief, then the rest of the child's body slips wetly from me. Spots dance in my eyes and I collapse, boneless against the floor.

The wail of my baby fills the room. I try to open my eyes and look, but it is hard. When I manage, I see Sheppard wrapping the child in one of the cloths we had wound around our heads the first day. He is fumbling, feeling out where to put his hands, and it is a messy, poor job. But he does it and then he is crawling towards me, reaching, touching, feeling his way to my face. “Congratulations, Genevieve,” he rasps, “you have a... baby.”

He cannot see. I suddenly laugh, though it is quickly tears that fall. I take my child and hold him, or her; I would check, but Sheppard has wrapped the child in such a haphazard way that it would take too much effort to undo.

The after pains grip me, though they are nothing compared to before. I am a mess and the air is filled with a metallic tang that sticks to the tongue. The afterbirth is almost too much for me to cope with, but I manage, awkwardly. The other head wrap now soaks up my blood. I help my babe find my breast, and then lie still.

Sheppard flops next to me. He is bruised, blind, and exhausted.

“This changes nothing,” I whisper.

“Doesn't matter,” he says, his head tilting upward, “my people will be here any minute now.”

I shake my head. “They cannot find you.”

“Maybe.”

“I still hate you.”

“Thanks would be nice.”

I turn away from him. “It would be meaningless.” But I suppose if that is true, saying it will do nothing. “Thank you.”

“You know, they'll eat that kid, eventually.” He is crawling across the room, back to the pump, his boots making scuffing sounds across the sand and stone.

I am growing cold; my legs and back are damp from the liquid spilled during birth. The cord must be cut, but for right now, I cannot find the energy to search my bag for the knife. It will not hurt the babe to wait, let the blood drain. I had thought it would be weeks yet till the child came, but perhaps the strain of capturing Sheppard and hauling him that first night brought the baby's arrival ahead of its time. I am shockingly tired, bone tired. Weary beyond anything I have felt in ages. It is hard to fight with Sheppard, to keep my eyes open, but his judgment rises up between us, re-igniting my anger.

“I do this for my child! My Gods promise life in return for yours.”

That self-assured smirk returns, despite his unseeing eyes. “You're kidding yourself.”

“Do you have a child, Sheppard? A wife?”

He clumsily drags the bucket to my side, feeling his way carefully, and his expression becomes unreadable. “No. Not anymore.”

“Then perhaps you cannot understand.” I realize that maybe it is something that he cannot ever grasp; if he does not have that love to bind him to someone, how can he understand another's motives to save it. “Do you have Gods on your world?”

“I kind of like talking about clowns,” he says.

“I can still kick you, and you will not see it coming.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He sounds disbelieving, but he sits close enough to me that I could reach him if I wished. “Okay, I'll bite. Yes, on my world we have people that believe in God, or, Gods, though that's not as common.”

“And what is the price this God demands of his followers?”

“Price,” he says, genuinely confused. “There's no price.”

“No death, if you do not do as they dictate? No reward if you do as they say?”

My babe has fallen asleep against my chest, and I cradle the child closer. I am feeling sleepy and wish to join him. I must sleep or I will not be able to restrain Sheppard. He will soon recover enough to fight back. If his eyes are not permanently damaged, the blindness will soon begin to abate. Right now, I am caught in a lull, but it will not last and already I am weary for the task ahead.

“Well, no. I guess. Okay, maybe, if you take the bible literally. There's the whole hell thing if you don't follow the ten commandments --”

“What is hell?”

Sheppard shakes his head. “You know what, forget it. This is pointless anyway.”

“It is not a good place,” I guess.

He says nothing. I am growing so tired... “Sheppard!” I feel my babe slipping from my chest and my arms are oddly numb. My limbs are tingling. I realize my breaths are coming fast and I do not remember when it had become that way.

“What? What is it?”

“My baby,” I gasp, “take my baby.”

It is a struggle to keep the child in my arms until Sheppard takes him. I am... something is wrong... “Sheppard,” I call, breathless, scared, “I think... I am ...”

My vision is blurring. I hear him swear, feel his hands groping between my legs. He's put my baby down to try and save me. “You're bleeding out. I don't... I can't.. I can't stop it.” I feel him pushing cloth against me, pressing in, but darkness is growing along the edges of my vision.

I fumble, grasping his wrist. He visibly flinches. Even now, I cause him pain. I know what is happening. I have seen it with other women. I had not realized the bleeding had continued. I am dying and suddenly there is no time. There is no midwife here to help me. My heart is pounding in my chest. “Why?” I demand, pulling Sheppard close; I need to know. “Why are you helping me?”

He yanks his hand away from me. “Because I'm not a monster. Now shut up and rest. There's still hope. My people are coming.”

I blink at the graying sky. “I would have given you to them, no matter what you have done.” I hate him. Hate where he comes from. I almost hate him more, now, for what he has done; helping me. I had captured, beaten, and drugged him. I have no sympathy. My Gods had taken any away that I had ever had, and buried it.

He is quiet when he says, “I know.”

“If I could, I would strike you one last time.” It is the only outlet for the unceasing pain that has taken up residence in my soul. I have failed. Utterly.

“I know that too.”

As my life seeps away from me, I fight to think. If his people can do as they promise – if they can stop the Gods – then for this child, there might still be hope, when none is left for me. This babe is pure. He has not been held in the arms of the Gods. They have not seen him; they have not cursed him. I hate Sheppard for what he is, but I know what he is not. “Do not let my baby die.” Though my demand is weak, it is enough to have said it. He will not leave my babe to die on my cooling chest. He will not feed my child to the sand worms, or worse.

I had but one chance to save my family, and I failed. My husband is dead; my firstborn will be taken for food. This is the price of my Gods. They will kill him for my failure. I will die with that extra misery upon my heart. It is enough to rekindle my flagging hate. If Sheppard had not been so heavy, if he had not fought the leather bindings; if I had not shown one small mercy and drugged him rather than risk ruining his wrists further-- I choke, overwhelmed, “Please, keep my child safe.” Sheppard will never know what it takes to plead.

“I will. I know some people. He ...” I hear him rooting around beside me and then he laughs, bittersweet. “She will be safe.” He squeezes my shoulder and the touch burns me to my soul. “You're gonna be fine.”

Before the encroaching darkness claims me completely, I hear shouts. Sheppard jerks away from my side, hollering, “It's about time! What took you guys?”

... he had been right. His people had come.




Part Two