Author: Flaim aka Darkfalconheart

Story: You can run with us. (18/?)

Pairing: nothing as of yet,

Rating: for this chapter: P- 17

Warnings: violence

Status: WIP

Spoilers: Up to ‘The lost tribe’.

Wordcount: ca. 4200

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author’s note: This chapter contains some violence, and some rather dark scenes. I do not write such scenes for the fun of it, they are in integral part of the character’s journeys. I also want to point out, that the decision one of the characters makes here, is neither lightly done nor one I want to be portrait in a cavalier manner. I have refrained from describing the circumstances that bring him to the point in more gory detail, because I did not want this chapter to become a horror story.

Chapter 18: The widening gyre

His glance has become so weary from pacing
Along the bars that it can hold no more.
It seems like a thousand bars encasing
Him, and beyond the thousand bars, no world.

The soft tread of steps strong and supple
Does in the tiniest of circles revolve,
It is like of dance of force around a middle,
In which, benumbed, there stands a great resolve.

Only sometimes like a curtain does the pupil
Silently slide open - then an image gains entry,
passes through members tensely still -
and in the heart, ceases to be.

(Rilke: The Panther)

For a myriad alternate translations of the poem see: http://www.thebeckoning.com/poetry/rilke/rilke3.html

Dietmar barely registered that the screams ringing from the cell’s walls were his own. His mind was haze of pain and dread. His body hit the hard ground of the cell, when the Wraith let go for a moment. He hardly had the strength to react and prevent his head from hitting the ground. His reflexes kicked in, the fresh pain from falling was a near welcome reprieve from the constant agony his interrogator had put him through. He tried to look up, but was unable to control the hard shakes running though his entire body. His interrogator lazily walked up to him.

Involuntarily Dietmar tensed, expecting another round of sheer agony. But the Wraith just stared down at him. “You can’t fight any longer.” He hissed. “So tell me: what were you doing at the supply depot.”

Dietmar bit down any word that might come to his lips, allowing himself no retort nor curse. The moment he began talking to his captor, he was down a dangerous road. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever, the moment when he broke would come – but just not now. Thus he did not react to the Wraith’s words at all.

His interrogator bend down and raised his hand. Another jolt of sheer agony ran through Dietmar’s body, he didn’t know how long it held this time. He never knew. Minutes, Moments, Ages, Hours, he had lost the feeling for them here. When the pain finally ceased, the Wraith hissed down on him. “This is getting tiresome. We are approaching the great hive. So – WHAT were you doing in the depot, human?”

Dietmar didn’t react, some part of him was hoping he would die from the shocks before long. The Wraith hissed angered. “You are pitiful, human.” Another jolt of pain followed the words.

Dietmar knew his strength run out, it grew harder and harder to keep silent from session to session. He had to hand it to those Wraith: they had gotten father with him, than even those crooks in Albania. And that was saying something. Yet – there was one way out remaining to him. One they would find hard to deal with. His eyes fixed on the Wraith’s black boots, that were in his line of sight. Marshalling whatever strength was left to him, he gripped the boot and toppled the Wraith by pushing it sideways. It took only moments for the Wraith to come up again, and crush Dietmar into the next wall with a hard kick. The soldier bit down another scream. His battered body was a heap on the floor. But the Wraith had not realised, that he had taken the small throwing knife that had been hidden in the Wraith’s boot. Dietmar remained unmoving, pretending to be close to passing out. Another hiss from outside the cell interrupted them, the interrogator turned around and stormed out of the cell.

Dietmar let go of his breath. He had not much time, they would come back. Carefully took up the knife he had taken from the Wraith. It wasn’t much, the blade was not very long, but it was razor sharp. The knife left him a choice, a way out before he could break and talk. It might be cold comfort, but he would die without betraying someone.

***

Carson Beckett was crouched behind a fallen column and watched the dark figures march by. Their flashlights illuminated the area around them, before everything went dark again. He ducked deeper, when one of the beams fell on the rubble he was hiding behind. But eventually they marched on. His eyes searched the immediate vicinity, but he could not see Jircanor. New steps made him hide motionless again behind the rubble. A new patrol came this way, stopping in the middle of the corridor. They were only two, but Carson doubted he could take them out without creating a ruckus that would alert their comrades. He looked around, there had to be some way around them… He froze in place when his eyes reached the ceiling. Jircanor was balancing on a half broken support beam above and speedily made his way until he was right above the two men. Carson wasn’t sure but to him it looked like Jircanor had something in his hands, knives perhaps. The runner stopped, waiting for a moment, until the two guards were calm again, then he jumped down. The blades in his hands hit down, as he landed, crushing full into the enemies’ backs. Both soldiers went down with out another noise. Carson saw Jircanor yanking the blades free – it as a pair of bloody Ulaks the Runner was wielding! – and hastened over to Carson. “We have to hurry – there are more on the way.” He whispered.

Carson nodded and followed the Runner down the corridor. He worried about Jircanor, though. He had been through a tremendous trauma, the healing experience included. Zarek had needed hours after the healing to overcome the aftershocks. If the Runner felt any of them, he didn’t show it. Jircanor raised a hand, gesturing Carson to move the left. Carson followed the hand gesture and found a niche, large enough to hide him. He saw Jircanor jump up, vanishing in the darkness above. Another patrol passed them by without stopping. Once they were out of sight, Jircanor landed right in front of the niche. “That hybrid must have mobilised all his armies,” he said in a hush.

“Hybrid? You mean Michael?” Carson asked in equally low tones. If these were Michael’s troops they were in a world of trouble. Vividly Carson remembered those two years in Michael’s hands.

“Don’t fear – they won’t get you.” Jircanor pointed him to come along, but a voice out of the darkness let them freeze.

“That is a promise that you won’t be able to uphold, Runner.” The voice came out of the shadows of one of the corridors. From all sides troops were swarming up, blocking every way out.

Carson knew that voice. “Michael.” He stepped out, siding with Jircanor. “If you want me, Michael, here I am.”

The hybrid emerged from the shadows, stopping in front of his troops. “The good doctor – I can’t help it – I am surprised. I had expected the Runner, but not you, Carson.”

Jircanor raised his blades, falling into a battle stance. “What do you want – creature? A final death? That can be arranged.”

Michael did not take the bait. “I had wanted you – to get those back I lost when the dart came for them. But as you have seen it fit to provide a replacement, I will accept.” As his soldiers closed in, he stepped towards Carson, his hand raised. “Yes, Doctor – I know, I can feel it, you activated your heritage. You will be most useful to me.”

Carson had no idea how Michael knew, perhaps the Ascension device altered the smell of a person? “Whatever you want – I won’t live long enough to do it.” And this time these words were a comfort. Michael would not be able to force him to do his bidding again.

The Hybrid chuckled. “Do you think so, Doctor?” he asked, then his eyes turned to Jircanor, who was being tied by the hybrid soldiers. “You were form Dhemarigán? The one who held the deal with Rhashiír? The Captain of the Silver?”

“And if I was?” Jircanor shot back. “You were a great Wraith once until someone took you into therapy, weren’t you?”

Michael again overheard the insult. “A, good. I recall your people making honour a most serious matter. The good Doctor here saved you, didn’t he? Then I strongly suggest you honour your debt and see that he does not perish or ascend on me.”

***

“I will need your advice, if we are to get out of this alive.” John said in low tones. He and Ronon were sitting on the floor of the cell. He did not know how long they had talked, or how long they had been silent in between.

The opening of the cell door interrupted them. Ashaviiýr was standing in the door, somewhere in the background John guessed would Sherachhvhar be too. He rose. “I guess visiting time is over?” He tried not to sound annoyed, it must be hours he had been down here.

Ashaviiýr raised one hand in an odd gesture. “No, but the strike force is returning and Lord Tarishaár requires your presence on their arrival.”

John was surprised, he must have been here longer, than he had expected. “Good,” he replied. He still did not feel well with the things that were happening, but he would try to handle them. He exchanged a short glance with Ronon, then followed Ashaviiýr out of the cell.

The corridors they passed were empty, as were the cells that lined them. For John it was hard to tell, if this were the same corridors they had passed hours before or not. Onboard hives he had usually used maps to get around or trusted McKay to figure out how to work the systems to get a direction at least. “Where are we going?” he asked after a moment.

“Central hangar bay.” Ashaviiýr replied. “The strike force will land soon. They are already close.”

John didn’t need to ask how Ashaviiýr knew, he knew a thing or two about Wraith telepathy himself. “So, they are bringing him in?” he asked, more to keep the conversation flowing, than anything else.

“They do.” Ashaviiýr sounded satisfied. “He tried to run, to hide, even used tricks and cunning distractions, but it did not save him.”

Entering the central hangar bay John did all he could to remember the decision he had made, down in that cell. He had to play along until they could find a way out of here. Ronon had been of the same opinion, and he was John’s only source of reference, the only one who had been in such a situation before. But in front of a full assembly of Wraith this was easer said than done. The Wraith group parted, allowing John to pass by, until he reached Tarishaár. “Did you find your friend well?” the Wraith Lord asked.

“As well as he can be when confined to a small space.” John replied truthfully. He was glad that Todd had not killed Ronon outright.

“In this he is not unlike a Wraith warrior.” Tarishaár observed.

“I wouldn’t tell him that.”

John would have bantered on, perhaps even enjoyed a winded discussion with the wily Wraith, but the rising of the force field interrupted him. The whole group of Wraith fell in a form, vaguely resembling a crescent, Todd at the centre of it. John came to stand close to him, having a good view on both ends of the semi-circle. The force field was only steps away from them, while the main hangar doors opened and a small Wraith ship manoeuvred in. It sat down effortlessly in the crammed space, that seemed too narrow for a ship of that size. The moment the pressure in the hangar was re - pressurized, the main ramp of the ship was lowered and troops began filing out. John studied the whole scenery silently, the longer he watched those troops, falling into formation left and right of the ramp, the more he began assessing them. They were well organised, and well trained, this he could tell without much watching. They were proud too, that was the next thing about them he realised. This was no rag-tag bunch of a Wraith gang, this was an army, and a proud one as far as he could see. The troops fell silent as their leader descended the ramp, behind him a dozen or so Wraith, the elite of his corps, probably. They dragged a chained Wraith with them. An odd mix of feelings rose inside John when he recognised the Wraith who had condemned him to becoming a Runner. Watching that Wraith, he felt a surge of anger rise inside him. Too well he remembered the day they had implanted the tracker in him, the day Anchoril had been destroyed. To this moment John had not known how much he hated this particular Wraith. Here and now he understood Ronon’s wish to kill the Wraith commander on Sateda himself.

The whole troop came to a halt. Only their leader advanced three more steps, before he dropped to one knee. John was startled, that Wraith was an exact mirror image of Ashaviiýr, except for a blood-red tattoo on the left half of his face. Without it, John would have believed him to be Ashaviiýr. Even his voice was the same. John did not understand what was spoken, but the timbre of the hiss was exactly the same like Ahsaviiýr’s was. Tarishaár’s reply was in Wraith language too, undecipherable for John. Yet the gesture that allowed the Commander to rise was remotely clear. The Commander bowed shortly to John before he took his place at the left end of the crescent.

All eyes now were on the captured Wraith, whose eyes were flashing with undiluted hatred. Whatever he barked at Tarishaár was cut short by the guards, whose iron grip forced him down, until he was on his knees. Tarishaár waited for a moment, clearly savouring the sight, before he gave an order, followed by a curt gesture.

John was tired of not understanding a word. He glanced around and found Ashaviiýr standing only one step away, his usual watchful self. His eyes focused on the Wraith warrior, hoping that the breach of protocol he might commit wasn’t too great. “What was that?”

A wry grin flicker over Ashaviiýrs features. “He is to be brought to the deep cells. His punishment will begin at the dark hour – midnight in your language.” He translated.

John nodded gratefully. The ceremony seemed to be over and he had neither placed himself in a dangerous position nor made a fool of himself. “Sheppard.” Tarishaár said suddenly. John turned around. The troops were already leaving, as were part of those Wraith that had greeted them here. “Celshakáar reported to me that he captured a human on the same planet. Leader of a troop who proved to be quite a distraction to my troops. He could not get any information from him until they landed.” Todd’s eyes flashed brightly. “The description of his weapons fits those I saw in Atlantis.”

Face flashed up in John’s mind. Lorne, Hawkins, Rolland, Espers, whom had the Wraith captured? Had it been a coincidence that an Atlantis team was there? “Can I see him?” he asked. “How bad is he?”

“Ashaviiýr will bring you there.” Tarishaár replied. “He should be hurting, but he’ll live.” He turned around striding out of the Hangar.

***

Bane had been sitting motionless for hours. Hiding in the vents was really getting to his joints. Another day or so and he would complain about backaches like an old man. But eventually the guards and the visitor left. Bane grinned. Patience. One of the first things his foster father had instilled in him had been patience. The ability to wait, no matter how long. He took his knife and buried it inside the mechanism to get the vent to open up. It slid open and Bane jumped down. He had raised both hands, to defend himself, in case he landed to close to the cell’s inhabitant. Being choked wasn’t on his list of things to do.

But Ronon only grinned, slightly startled. “Decided to find a cell for yourself?” The Satedan asked.

Bane grinned broadly. “Breaking you out of this cell, what else? Your friend needs a rescue, before he gets lost in the maze, don’t you think?”

Ronon scowled. “You listened.”

“I sat in that vent for hours, waiting for your friend to leave.” Bane replied. “I don’t think badly of your friend.” He added in uncharacteristically soft tones. “he was ill prepared.”

Ronon decided to let the topic slide. The amount of irony Bane had in mass supply told him enough about the young fighter. “So, what’s the grand plan?” he asked. He could come up with a dozen plans in no time, but wanted to take his young comrade in arms serious.

“I climb outside, open the door and get you out. Then we split up. You go and intercept your friend when he returns form the hangar bay. The grand reception will start soon. I sneak down the main core and provide some distraction. You grab your friend, get to the dart bay and leave this hive behind you.”

Ronon had to admit, it was a solid plan. As solid as any plan for two people taking on a hive could be. “And you?” he asked.

Bane threw back his long hair. “I’ll retreat to the auxiliary hangars, steal a dart there and run the other way.” He replied. “Don’t worry, it’s not the first time for me.”

“I can see that, you came to battle early.” Ronon admitted. He did not like the idea, but it was a plan that just might work out. “Let’s go.”

Bane again climbed into the vent, the shaft was too narrow to allow a man of Ronon’s stature to pass it, but it was unnecessary. Bane slipped out in the empty corridor and opened the cell door. Silently he handed Ronon two knives and stunner. It wasn’t much, but better than nothing. Together they hurried through the empty cell deck, avoiding the cells with prisoners, because they were guarded and eventually reached a lift leading up. “That way up and we are on the maintenance level.” Bane said.

Ronon knew this, he knew his way around hives quite well and knew the basic layout of a great hive by heart. “I know. So here’s were we part? You sure about that?”

Bane nodded grimly. “I am.” The way he straightened up betrayed his youth more than anything.

“You are not.” Ronon observed.

“I am.” Bane shot back. “there is something else… I have wanted to tell you ever since we met… but there was never time. And – ah I am not a talker.”

Ronon grinned. “Me neither. So what is it?” Worst case the youth had heard of his rep as a runner, but more likely had someone he wanted to give a message to.

“The man who trained me is Satedan.” Bane began speaking hastily. “He managed to get out of Sateda with a bunch of kids and youngsters before everything went straight down to hell.”

“Some more survivors?” Ronon’s mood lit up. Every message about another group of survivors was something he savoured. He might never join them to find a new home, but knowing that they were around filled him with a warmth, that reminded him of home.

“Aye. Avila had mostly kids with him when he made it out…”

“Avila? Did you say Avila…” Ronon did not trust his ears. Should his friend have found a way out of burning Sateda. And if he had. “Was there a boy with him?” Ronon did not manage to specify the question burning inside him. It was unlikely, so unlikely that he dared not to hope.

“You mean Avila junior, I guess? Avila Dex?” Bane asked. “Yeah he’s about my age and Avila sr. says time and again he takes after his father.” Now Bane grinned. “What I wanted to tell you – Avila has people on the lookout in many villages. They hear things and report back to him, it’s also a place for washouts from his training. There is one among the Athosians, a guy called Athalwyn. Find him and he can guide you back to Avila.” Bane looked around. “Time to go.” He did not wait for Ronon but sped away in the direction that would bring him to the core areas.

***

Another cell tract this time aboard a ship. John wondered how many he would see, before this was over. Ashaviiýr walked beside him, keeping up with John’s brisk stride effortlessly. They reached the cell, a typical cell like John had seen some of them on other hives. What was less fitting was the smell, one that did not belong here like that. John knew that stench quite well, he had smelled it in other places, and other times. Blood, lots of it. “Open the cell, something is wrong.” He ordered.

Ashaviiýr punched the mechanism and the door slid up. In the middle of the cell John saw a human figure lying in a puddle of blood. He hastened over to the man, who lay facedown on the cell floor. The blood sprang from a neck-wound. Suicide. He tried to kill himself. The thought shot through his mind. He stayed facedown, so when he looses consciousness chances are higher he suffocates. John slipped out of the rough shirt he was wearing, pressing the cloth against the cut in the neck. “Get the healers,” he barked at Ashaviiýr. “He hasn’t much time left.” He could feel that the body was still warm, the heart was still beating, but the man was weak. Gently he lifted the blonde head up a little, to allow the man to breathe without getting in contact with the blood on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ashaviiýr leave, probably to get help. For the first time John was glad about his odd status among the Wraith. It might help to save this man. The clothes were a dead giveaway for someone from either Atlantis or the Daedalus.

It wasn’t an easy feat to turn the man around, bringing him into a semi-stable position. All the field traning John had received during his time flying evac missions paid off, and he managed to get the wounded man to rest on the side, turned away from the blood puddle.

A sudden shake ran through the ship, accompanied by the faint echo of an explosion. John needed both hands to prevent the wounded man to slide to the side and crane his wounded neck. It turned the man’s face up to him. When he saw his face, John nearly let go of the cloth he held pressed against the neck-cut. He knew this face, he had seen it in places as dark and as dire as this one. Illo. But it was impossible. How should he have come here? And how should he have fallen into the hands of the Wraith? “It can’t be.” John said to himself. “Illo.” He had to say it aloud to make it real.

A fluttering of his eyelids told John, that he wasn’t unconscious, he had heard him. “Illo… don’t move. You are wounded.”

“John…?” The word was nearly inaudible. Illo had no strength to talk.

“Don’t try to talk.” John said, trying to keep the wounded man calm. “You’re going to be okay, you hear me?”

A movement in his back heralded someone tall entering. “Ashaviiýr – we can’t move him. He has lost lots of blood and the bleeding only barely stopped.” They needed the healers here.

“Thanks. I am no Wraith.” He heard a gruff voice behind him.

John looked up. Ronon stood in the doorway, he was armed and looked ready to fight his way out of the hive. “John, time to get off this… hells, what did they do to this one?” Ronon crouched down on the other side of the wounded man. “from Atlantis?” he asked.

“He tried to kill himself.” John tried to speak calmly. Illo was tough, when he had opted for the last resort, things must have been more than bad. He had even faced up that Taliban leader with his scimitar calmly. “And… I don’t know how Illo got here. Or you, for that matter.”

Ronon sighed. “The plan was getting out of here. Bane is creating a distraction.”

“The explosion.” John checked the wound again. As long as he held the cloth hard against it, he could block the bleeding, but that was all. Illo was weak, had lost much blood, he would never survive if they took him along. “Go, Ronon. Get out of here.” John decided.

The tall Satedan shook his head. “No. I won’t leave you behind.”