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Fic: You can run with us 4/?
Author: Flaim aka Darkfalconheart
Story: You can run with us. (4/?)
Pairing: nothing as of yet, maybe John/Ronon later on
Summary: John get’s captured by the Wraith, they make him a runner.
Rating: for this chapter: 13 , may be higher in later chapters
Warnings: some violence
Status: WIP
Spoilers: Up to ‘The lost tribe’.
Wordcount: ca.3700.
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 was difficult to write, mainly because of the time that needed to pass by. Still, in a way I enjoyed telling it the way it is now. Thanks to all of you who commented or wrote e mails in response to the last chapters. You all are great!!
I try my best when writing, but English is a second language for me, and while I give my best to avoid mistakes, they happen still. If my expressions/ sentences/meanings are unclear just point it out to me. Otherwise: have fun.
Thanks a lot to feathers who took the time to correct my mistakes! You rock!
Chapter 4. A day here and a year there
Some people said he was a ghost,
Wouldn't want to be his host,
Or just to meet him.
And if he ever came their way,
Than it's sticks and stones, I'd say,
That would greet him.
(Boney M. - He was a Steppenwolf)
Ronon had been tracking rumours and whispers for many months now, how many he did not care to count. His first solid lead had been a rumour he had heard from a trader on Belkan, who had heard it from a merchant peddling his wares on Oricas, who had been told about it by a traveller from Iskhan, which had only repeated what he had been told by a mercenary in a tavern on Rocarin, where the self-same story had been floating around weeks, and only the innkeeper seemed to remember the tall traveller form Janitsar who had started it. On Janitsar one of the freighter pilots recalled a nurse mentioning the same story after she returned from Zyphár, where she had been tending to the survivors of a particularly vicious culling.
Almost none of these intel had been given freely or willingly. Ronon had stopped counting how many people had wanted some kind of service or other price for their knowledge. Once they saw him they remembered old grudges, revenges and debts never collected and decided that it was just the right moment to settle some unfinished business. As long as it was skull bashing, shooting, threatening and other rough work, Ronon delivered in a quality that usually loosened their tongues. He knew he was sinking to mercenary level rather fast, he was selling himself and his skills in a way he had never expected, but he didn't care. As long as he got the information he needed, the next link in that chase, the next piece to the puzzle, he would do their petty bidding. He had never started counting how many people he had cajoled into telling him all they knew. Had he not learned to survive on next to nothing, this hunt would have failed weeks ago.
At the time Ronon arrived on Zyphár, the trail had seemed cold. Many people had already left the planet, seeking their fortunes elsewhere, others did not want to remember anything that was connected with the time of the great culling. Ronon had earned more than his usual fare of glares and distrustful glances along with some new 'jobs'. The information he'd got out of those had been scarce. He had taken the last one – extracting some long overdue money from a trader – only because he could use the more substantial pay his contact promised. But to his surprise his contact had pointed him to a freighter Apilot who transported traders and goods to some worlds without a gate. The old man was a drinker out of lifelong habit, but had recognised Ronon's Satedan accent at once. After some bottles of Tabreán ale and much painful reminiscences about Sateda the old man had stared at Ronon, grinning. "So, who are you after?" he had asked.
From his small backpack Ronon had extracted his perhaps most important asset on this search: a page with two drawings. One was a portrait of John Sheppard and the other of Jircanor. The latter he had drawn from memory, trying to get it as precise as possible. He knew it was dangerous to show the picture of a Runner to anyone, but he silently hoped that Jircanor would hear of this sooner or later an come after him. Ronon knew he was in for a rough time when Jircanor found him, but he was willing to take the risk.
The drunken pilot had frowned on the pictures. "I'll be…" he had taken another long gulp from his canteen. "I don't know this one –" he pointed on Jircanor's portait. "But this one –" his fingers hovered above the picture of John Sheppard. "This one – I met. Oh yeah – right in the middle of the Wraith attack on Anchoril, bad bad day that was. But he – well, he saved some people's lives when he cleared the way to the great ring."
A sudden warm feeling erupted inside Ronon. The attack on Anchoril had been only two months ago, if John Sheppard had been alive and kicking then, there was a good chance he was still alive. He had convinced the pilot to take him along to Anchoril, doing some skull-bashing for him on the way there. One of the survivors in the ruins of once beautiful Anchoril recalled John Sheppard too. "We owe him our very lives," she sais. "Had he not fought his way to the gate, we would have never made it out. I don't know from where he came, but he had people on his trail. He left right after he knew we were safe." But she recalled the gate address John Sheppard had dialled.
All of sudden the focus of the hunt hunt shifted: up till know Ronon had hoped to either track down Jircanor, or vex the Runner into coming after him and tell him what he knew about John Sheppard's fate. But now he had found the trace of John himself, and with all energy he had, Ronon threw himself into this new hunt.
***
There was no time in John Sheppard's life he could recall being colder or hungrier. He was constantly on the move, never staying anywhere for longer than fleeting hours. Often not even that. He often had no idea where the next jump of the gate would bring him. After the disaster with Shelleau he never again used addresses he remembered from his time in Atlantis. The addresses he used these days he found either by watching others dialling the gate, or by sheer trial and error. It was not a good way to travel, but better than risking another run in with the people from Atlantis. He had come across worlds that worshipped the Wraith, worlds full of ruins and ancient technology and again across worlds that had not seen a living being in long years. Some of those had been hideouts that allowed him to hunt for food without fearing that he would bring the Wraith down on an unwitting population.
The longer he ran the more John learned about outsmarting and outrunning his opponents. He learned to trap them, to hunt them in the dark, to feel their presence long before they could smell him. He learned not to trust his eyes, but his ears, to fight in absolute darkness, to never sleep deeply, always ready to fight, ready to jump up at the slightest noise. For weeks he had been exhausted, sometimes nearly unable to run, but somehow his body had adapted to the constant abuse.
Anchoril came as the next great catastrophe. He had stepped through the gate and hidden away in the nearby mountains, intending to stay just long enough to hunt food. But behind him came a congregation of people through the gate. They camped there. For six weeks the gate had been blocked to him because once in ten years the natives went to a great assembly to again bless the ring of the Ancestors. Effectively trapping John. He had moved away from them, journeying through what went for a new spring on this world. Doom fell on a the first warm day of spring – a group of six hive ships arrived in orbit and the culling began. John had known the Wraith had been looking for him and he felt sick when he saw them descending on the population. When he saw the darts swooping down, he had for one moment hoped, they'd cull him too. The silent wish for death had only made way for an ever greater rage. He was fed up, fed up with being hunted, fed up with being a harbinger of doom no matter where he went, fed up with running: he had taken his weapons and fought back, carving a path through the Wraith ranks back to the gate. If the Wraith wanted to hunt him, they would find that the prey had grown some teeth.
Only in the aftermath of the fighting did John realise how many people had escaped from Anchoril because of him. He had gotten away from the survivors as fast as he could, before another Wraith attack could follow them. From that time on he avoided too populated worlds, drawing his hunters to lonesome and empty places where he would in turn hunt them down. In the dark he would sneak up on them, killing them, trapping them, luring them into deadly ambushes.
Not always did avoiding people prove easy. Even on thinly populated worlds John might chance upon people in the woods or in the mountains. Usually he heard them from far away and hid until they were gone. But sometimes it was simply impossible.
John dodged another blast of fire from his last pursuer. He had taken out the rest of the group, but this one was good. He had evaded the traps as well as the ambush John had tried earlier that day. Sliding downhill John did not try to slow his descent, it gave him a head start on the Wraith. On the ground of the valley ran a small footpath, perhaps it was what passed as a road for these parts. John raced on to cross the open ground fast and was already on his way up the next overgrown hill, when he heard a dull thump. Turning around he saw the Wraith on the ground, nailed down by a blade through his back. Only a few steps away stood a tall man beside a heavy cart. John had heard the cart being pulled by its two horses earlier, but he had hoped to lure the Wraith through here before the cart got close. Luckily the man had been able to take care of himself and handled the Wraith rather well. Right now he checked that the Wraith was truly dead.
A relived sigh escaped John. This time he had not been the harbinger of death, and it was only due to the skill of that blond guy down in the valley. "He's dead – you can come down." John understood the words perfectly well. He had picked up on the native tongues, most of them some deviation of Ancient, rather fast. On his constant run he had often been forced to hide and wait until people moved on, which allowed him to listen to the various dialects. He did not move. If he remained completely still, the man down there would hopefully presume that John had run on and would leave.
The man down there pulled the blade – it was a long sword – from the body and put it away with a flourish. "You can come down," he repeated. "Don't be afraid."
John sighed. Again he had run into some nice guy who wanted to help him. Why could he not just run into people who chased him away? It would make running sometimes easier. He crouched down, leaning against the tree. He just needed to wait. The man down there had his cart, which was heavily laden and had probably not much time to waste. He would go on if John just stayed hidden. Still it left a bitter feeling inside John. He had to stay away to protect this man from the Wraith that would come again soon enough, but it got harder and harder. John closed his eyes and forced himself to be completely still. He had been able to hide from Wraith this way more than once. The man did not call out a third time. John relaxed a little and listened for the cart to get moving again. Luckily the man was not as stubborn as he could be.
"I can't imagine that you are afraid of me, so I guess you are afraid of being found." The warm baritone voice only steps away from him, startled John. He had to check his reflexes not to throw a knife in the direction of the noise. Looking up he saw the blond man bend down some steps away, studying him intently. John saw a lean face, keen grey eyes that spoke of intelligence and awareness.
"Please – you need to go," he said. "You are in danger."
"You are a Sakrai – a Runner – I guess?" the man observed. "Come on, you are injured and could do with some help for a change." He rose and offered John a hand.
John struggled to his feet without accepting it. "You don't get it…"
"I do. You are a Runner, I know your kind. I know the Wraith. Now, come on!"
In a daze John allowed the stranger to lead him down to path and the cart. "They will come for you…" he managed to say as he was urged to sit down beside the cart.
"They are welcome to try," was the curt answer as the man got a bundle from his cart. "And now let me take a look at your injuries. They don't look good."
Slightly surprised John looked down on himself. To his mind he was no worse than he had been before this encounter, or the one before this one. "It's nothing," he replied.
A deep chuckle escaped the man, who began very efficiently to clean the shoulder wound. "That's what they all say, believe me. And now hold still."
John shook his head stubbornly. "I better get going."
"Damn it! I said stop fidgeting! This wound is bad enough as it is." The words were not a question, they were an order and John knew an order when he heard one. The blond man continued cleaning up the shoulder wound. The salve he spread on the wound cooled it somewhat and numbed the pain. After he was done, he continued with the other wounds. "I'm called Syrkan, and you?" he asked.
"John." Sheppard gave in and at last told him his name. "Thank you for the help."
Syrkan waved the word off. "Think nothing of it. You are not the first one of your kind I've met."
"Of my kind, you mean…?"
"Runners. How many are still behind you?" He looked uphill.
"None right now. This one was the last. But I need to get back to the gate – the ring of the ancestors," John found himself replying.
Syrkan nodded. "Good. I am on my way to the ring myself. You can come with me. It's a two day journey on the cart."
John shook his head. "I can't. I will bring them down on you if I stay. I have already stayed too long."
Suddenly Syrkan's hands gripped John's shoulders, it was painful, but forced John to look the other man straight into the eyes. "John, now listen to me – you can't bring the Wraith down on my family, my people or my planet – because they all are already dead. The Wraith took them long ago. And if they come after me – they are welcome to try. Don't worry about me. I live not in a settlement, and when I peddle around I never stay long myself."
The cart was rattling along the small road, the two horses made good speed. John still wondered how he had come by this ride. He was sitting right beside Syrkan, who held the reins of the horses in his right hand, leaving the left free for taking up the weapons should it become necessary. "So you are a peddler?" John asked eventually.
"They call it a blacksmith." Syrkan replied. "I make swords and knives and trade them around, for those who can use them I make guns and trade them too." He saw John's astonished face. "You wonder that I know how to make guns? My world was somewhat more advanced, than many other worlds out here."
"So how do you know how to forge swords?" John asked. "That's not something you learn along with engineering and modern sciences."
Syrkan chuckled. "Swordplay was a highly valued art among my people, we never forgot how to make our weapons. My hideout is on a ruined planet, where there is still enough tech around to use it for making very good swords and other weapons. Mix enough modern knowledge into the ancient world and you'll get a near unbeatable combination. "
"So you make weapons and trade them around on the worlds. Was there nowhere else to go?" Had he just found another last survivor of an entire civilisation? How many were there, lost, adrift without any place to call home or at least a safe haven?
"There were only few survivors of my world and most of them died, striking back at the Wraith. And those who did not, live much as I do – on their own, at some distance. We would never fit into their villages and small communities, we'd always struggle to fit in, or live as they do. So we just went and live on our own. Being alone means being strong."
"The lion fights alone, and so do I?" John asked. He knew this Lone Wolf mindset from Ronon well enough. And he had come to understand it during those last months.
Together they travelled to the gate. It was not an easy journey. John found himself unable to sleep with a stranger close by. Syrkan was not the least offended, he had expected nothing else. John's reflexes tended to kick in whenever startled. Syrkan was careful but found himself with John's dagger at his throat at least three times. He laughed it off, utterly unafraid. Eventually their journey ended, Syrkan stopped the cart in the woods. "The ring is ahead," he said. "I'll go first, should Wraith be there, you'll know soon enough. But I guess there will be just some traders bickering about who blocks the way through the ring for how long. Wait until it is dark and you should be fine."
"We could go together." John replied. After they had travelled together for two days it would make no difference if they reached the gate together.
Syrkan shook his head. "No, John. If I do not know where you went, I can't betray you. A secret I do not know can't be taken from me by any form of trick or torture." He turned around and took a heavy bundle from the cart. "There – you'll be needing this.
By the length of the bundle John could guess it was a sword, perhaps similar to the one Syrkan himself used. "I can't take this." He tried to refuse but Syrkan wasn't in the mood for a discussion.
"You can and you will. You'll need it. And I'll feel better about leaving you here like this if I know you have some decent weapons." Without waiting for any reply he drove his horses on. John saw the cart going past the next bent in the road then it was gone.
Slowly he opened the bundle. It contained a sword, a sharp, double-edged blade, an assortments of knives and a pistol. John almost dropped the whole bundle. He had seen such a pistol before, but never asked where it had come from.
***
The glances that followed Ronon down the road were moving from distrustful to outright aggressive the longer he was here. The people didn't like questions, they did not like Ronon roughing up two of their number and they clearly distrusted him. "You better go away and ask questions elsewhere," an elderly man advised him. "There is nothing you can learn here."
Ronon ignored him. He was not here to debate with them. Strolling down the lane he reached the end of the village. It did not take much to look around and he did not see the person he had expected sitting on a rock. If Lorne or Teyla had been here, all would have been well, but what was Zelenka doing here? "What has happened? Where are Lorne and Teyla?" he asked.
The Czech scientist look up. "Still your old charming self. It is good to see you again, Ronon," he replied. "Teyla… well her second child is due any day and she could hardly go off-world. Especially as Woolsey is somewhat jumpy these days. And Lorne…"
A cold fear gripped Ronon's soul. Had another comrade fallen to the Wraith? And the Wraith were winning the battles these days. With the High Wraith exerting a firm hand on at least half of the Wraith factions, the 'wild Wraith,' as they called them, the Wraith had become again a force to be reckoned with.
"Lorne was injured in fight," Zelenka said. "And Keller decided that he needed to be sent to Earth for full recovery." An odd smile shone in the eyes of the Czech scientist. "You see, Ronon, sometimes when one power above you becomes to oppressive, you need another equally oppressive force to relieve the weight at least a little."
Ronon understood only half of what Zelenka was saying. "Will Lorne be alright?" he asked.
Zelenka nodded. "Sure he will be, and he will inform some people of many things we have found out since you left. But do not worry about that – did you find out anything about Sheppard or this other Runner?"
Ronon sat down opposite the scientist. "John was seen some months ago on Anchoril, helping people during a culling, and he there is a rumour that he was on Tywara not eight weeks ago. I am on my way there."
Zelenka's eyes shone. "That's great news, Ronon. If you find him, let us know. But don't bring him back to Atlantis until we got some things sorted out."
Ronon frowned. "What ARE you doing, Zelenka?"
Now the Czech looked very serious. "Woolsey might believe himself to be the highest pusher for his masters, but he isn't almighty. And sometimes a little good old fashioned resistance is needed."
Ronon still did not understand, but if the scientists had formed some kind of conspiracy to remove or murder Woolsey it was fine by him. He had a trail to follow.
Story: You can run with us. (4/?)
Pairing: nothing as of yet, maybe John/Ronon later on
Summary: John get’s captured by the Wraith, they make him a runner.
Rating: for this chapter: 13 , may be higher in later chapters
Warnings: some violence
Status: WIP
Spoilers: Up to ‘The lost tribe’.
Wordcount: ca.3700.
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 was difficult to write, mainly because of the time that needed to pass by. Still, in a way I enjoyed telling it the way it is now. Thanks to all of you who commented or wrote e mails in response to the last chapters. You all are great!!
I try my best when writing, but English is a second language for me, and while I give my best to avoid mistakes, they happen still. If my expressions/ sentences/meanings are unclear just point it out to me. Otherwise: have fun.
Thanks a lot to feathers who took the time to correct my mistakes! You rock!
Chapter 4. A day here and a year there
Some people said he was a ghost,
Wouldn't want to be his host,
Or just to meet him.
And if he ever came their way,
Than it's sticks and stones, I'd say,
That would greet him.
(Boney M. - He was a Steppenwolf)
Ronon had been tracking rumours and whispers for many months now, how many he did not care to count. His first solid lead had been a rumour he had heard from a trader on Belkan, who had heard it from a merchant peddling his wares on Oricas, who had been told about it by a traveller from Iskhan, which had only repeated what he had been told by a mercenary in a tavern on Rocarin, where the self-same story had been floating around weeks, and only the innkeeper seemed to remember the tall traveller form Janitsar who had started it. On Janitsar one of the freighter pilots recalled a nurse mentioning the same story after she returned from Zyphár, where she had been tending to the survivors of a particularly vicious culling.
Almost none of these intel had been given freely or willingly. Ronon had stopped counting how many people had wanted some kind of service or other price for their knowledge. Once they saw him they remembered old grudges, revenges and debts never collected and decided that it was just the right moment to settle some unfinished business. As long as it was skull bashing, shooting, threatening and other rough work, Ronon delivered in a quality that usually loosened their tongues. He knew he was sinking to mercenary level rather fast, he was selling himself and his skills in a way he had never expected, but he didn't care. As long as he got the information he needed, the next link in that chase, the next piece to the puzzle, he would do their petty bidding. He had never started counting how many people he had cajoled into telling him all they knew. Had he not learned to survive on next to nothing, this hunt would have failed weeks ago.
At the time Ronon arrived on Zyphár, the trail had seemed cold. Many people had already left the planet, seeking their fortunes elsewhere, others did not want to remember anything that was connected with the time of the great culling. Ronon had earned more than his usual fare of glares and distrustful glances along with some new 'jobs'. The information he'd got out of those had been scarce. He had taken the last one – extracting some long overdue money from a trader – only because he could use the more substantial pay his contact promised. But to his surprise his contact had pointed him to a freighter Apilot who transported traders and goods to some worlds without a gate. The old man was a drinker out of lifelong habit, but had recognised Ronon's Satedan accent at once. After some bottles of Tabreán ale and much painful reminiscences about Sateda the old man had stared at Ronon, grinning. "So, who are you after?" he had asked.
From his small backpack Ronon had extracted his perhaps most important asset on this search: a page with two drawings. One was a portrait of John Sheppard and the other of Jircanor. The latter he had drawn from memory, trying to get it as precise as possible. He knew it was dangerous to show the picture of a Runner to anyone, but he silently hoped that Jircanor would hear of this sooner or later an come after him. Ronon knew he was in for a rough time when Jircanor found him, but he was willing to take the risk.
The drunken pilot had frowned on the pictures. "I'll be…" he had taken another long gulp from his canteen. "I don't know this one –" he pointed on Jircanor's portait. "But this one –" his fingers hovered above the picture of John Sheppard. "This one – I met. Oh yeah – right in the middle of the Wraith attack on Anchoril, bad bad day that was. But he – well, he saved some people's lives when he cleared the way to the great ring."
A sudden warm feeling erupted inside Ronon. The attack on Anchoril had been only two months ago, if John Sheppard had been alive and kicking then, there was a good chance he was still alive. He had convinced the pilot to take him along to Anchoril, doing some skull-bashing for him on the way there. One of the survivors in the ruins of once beautiful Anchoril recalled John Sheppard too. "We owe him our very lives," she sais. "Had he not fought his way to the gate, we would have never made it out. I don't know from where he came, but he had people on his trail. He left right after he knew we were safe." But she recalled the gate address John Sheppard had dialled.
All of sudden the focus of the hunt hunt shifted: up till know Ronon had hoped to either track down Jircanor, or vex the Runner into coming after him and tell him what he knew about John Sheppard's fate. But now he had found the trace of John himself, and with all energy he had, Ronon threw himself into this new hunt.
***
There was no time in John Sheppard's life he could recall being colder or hungrier. He was constantly on the move, never staying anywhere for longer than fleeting hours. Often not even that. He often had no idea where the next jump of the gate would bring him. After the disaster with Shelleau he never again used addresses he remembered from his time in Atlantis. The addresses he used these days he found either by watching others dialling the gate, or by sheer trial and error. It was not a good way to travel, but better than risking another run in with the people from Atlantis. He had come across worlds that worshipped the Wraith, worlds full of ruins and ancient technology and again across worlds that had not seen a living being in long years. Some of those had been hideouts that allowed him to hunt for food without fearing that he would bring the Wraith down on an unwitting population.
The longer he ran the more John learned about outsmarting and outrunning his opponents. He learned to trap them, to hunt them in the dark, to feel their presence long before they could smell him. He learned not to trust his eyes, but his ears, to fight in absolute darkness, to never sleep deeply, always ready to fight, ready to jump up at the slightest noise. For weeks he had been exhausted, sometimes nearly unable to run, but somehow his body had adapted to the constant abuse.
Anchoril came as the next great catastrophe. He had stepped through the gate and hidden away in the nearby mountains, intending to stay just long enough to hunt food. But behind him came a congregation of people through the gate. They camped there. For six weeks the gate had been blocked to him because once in ten years the natives went to a great assembly to again bless the ring of the Ancestors. Effectively trapping John. He had moved away from them, journeying through what went for a new spring on this world. Doom fell on a the first warm day of spring – a group of six hive ships arrived in orbit and the culling began. John had known the Wraith had been looking for him and he felt sick when he saw them descending on the population. When he saw the darts swooping down, he had for one moment hoped, they'd cull him too. The silent wish for death had only made way for an ever greater rage. He was fed up, fed up with being hunted, fed up with being a harbinger of doom no matter where he went, fed up with running: he had taken his weapons and fought back, carving a path through the Wraith ranks back to the gate. If the Wraith wanted to hunt him, they would find that the prey had grown some teeth.
Only in the aftermath of the fighting did John realise how many people had escaped from Anchoril because of him. He had gotten away from the survivors as fast as he could, before another Wraith attack could follow them. From that time on he avoided too populated worlds, drawing his hunters to lonesome and empty places where he would in turn hunt them down. In the dark he would sneak up on them, killing them, trapping them, luring them into deadly ambushes.
Not always did avoiding people prove easy. Even on thinly populated worlds John might chance upon people in the woods or in the mountains. Usually he heard them from far away and hid until they were gone. But sometimes it was simply impossible.
John dodged another blast of fire from his last pursuer. He had taken out the rest of the group, but this one was good. He had evaded the traps as well as the ambush John had tried earlier that day. Sliding downhill John did not try to slow his descent, it gave him a head start on the Wraith. On the ground of the valley ran a small footpath, perhaps it was what passed as a road for these parts. John raced on to cross the open ground fast and was already on his way up the next overgrown hill, when he heard a dull thump. Turning around he saw the Wraith on the ground, nailed down by a blade through his back. Only a few steps away stood a tall man beside a heavy cart. John had heard the cart being pulled by its two horses earlier, but he had hoped to lure the Wraith through here before the cart got close. Luckily the man had been able to take care of himself and handled the Wraith rather well. Right now he checked that the Wraith was truly dead.
A relived sigh escaped John. This time he had not been the harbinger of death, and it was only due to the skill of that blond guy down in the valley. "He's dead – you can come down." John understood the words perfectly well. He had picked up on the native tongues, most of them some deviation of Ancient, rather fast. On his constant run he had often been forced to hide and wait until people moved on, which allowed him to listen to the various dialects. He did not move. If he remained completely still, the man down there would hopefully presume that John had run on and would leave.
The man down there pulled the blade – it was a long sword – from the body and put it away with a flourish. "You can come down," he repeated. "Don't be afraid."
John sighed. Again he had run into some nice guy who wanted to help him. Why could he not just run into people who chased him away? It would make running sometimes easier. He crouched down, leaning against the tree. He just needed to wait. The man down there had his cart, which was heavily laden and had probably not much time to waste. He would go on if John just stayed hidden. Still it left a bitter feeling inside John. He had to stay away to protect this man from the Wraith that would come again soon enough, but it got harder and harder. John closed his eyes and forced himself to be completely still. He had been able to hide from Wraith this way more than once. The man did not call out a third time. John relaxed a little and listened for the cart to get moving again. Luckily the man was not as stubborn as he could be.
"I can't imagine that you are afraid of me, so I guess you are afraid of being found." The warm baritone voice only steps away from him, startled John. He had to check his reflexes not to throw a knife in the direction of the noise. Looking up he saw the blond man bend down some steps away, studying him intently. John saw a lean face, keen grey eyes that spoke of intelligence and awareness.
"Please – you need to go," he said. "You are in danger."
"You are a Sakrai – a Runner – I guess?" the man observed. "Come on, you are injured and could do with some help for a change." He rose and offered John a hand.
John struggled to his feet without accepting it. "You don't get it…"
"I do. You are a Runner, I know your kind. I know the Wraith. Now, come on!"
In a daze John allowed the stranger to lead him down to path and the cart. "They will come for you…" he managed to say as he was urged to sit down beside the cart.
"They are welcome to try," was the curt answer as the man got a bundle from his cart. "And now let me take a look at your injuries. They don't look good."
Slightly surprised John looked down on himself. To his mind he was no worse than he had been before this encounter, or the one before this one. "It's nothing," he replied.
A deep chuckle escaped the man, who began very efficiently to clean the shoulder wound. "That's what they all say, believe me. And now hold still."
John shook his head stubbornly. "I better get going."
"Damn it! I said stop fidgeting! This wound is bad enough as it is." The words were not a question, they were an order and John knew an order when he heard one. The blond man continued cleaning up the shoulder wound. The salve he spread on the wound cooled it somewhat and numbed the pain. After he was done, he continued with the other wounds. "I'm called Syrkan, and you?" he asked.
"John." Sheppard gave in and at last told him his name. "Thank you for the help."
Syrkan waved the word off. "Think nothing of it. You are not the first one of your kind I've met."
"Of my kind, you mean…?"
"Runners. How many are still behind you?" He looked uphill.
"None right now. This one was the last. But I need to get back to the gate – the ring of the ancestors," John found himself replying.
Syrkan nodded. "Good. I am on my way to the ring myself. You can come with me. It's a two day journey on the cart."
John shook his head. "I can't. I will bring them down on you if I stay. I have already stayed too long."
Suddenly Syrkan's hands gripped John's shoulders, it was painful, but forced John to look the other man straight into the eyes. "John, now listen to me – you can't bring the Wraith down on my family, my people or my planet – because they all are already dead. The Wraith took them long ago. And if they come after me – they are welcome to try. Don't worry about me. I live not in a settlement, and when I peddle around I never stay long myself."
The cart was rattling along the small road, the two horses made good speed. John still wondered how he had come by this ride. He was sitting right beside Syrkan, who held the reins of the horses in his right hand, leaving the left free for taking up the weapons should it become necessary. "So you are a peddler?" John asked eventually.
"They call it a blacksmith." Syrkan replied. "I make swords and knives and trade them around, for those who can use them I make guns and trade them too." He saw John's astonished face. "You wonder that I know how to make guns? My world was somewhat more advanced, than many other worlds out here."
"So how do you know how to forge swords?" John asked. "That's not something you learn along with engineering and modern sciences."
Syrkan chuckled. "Swordplay was a highly valued art among my people, we never forgot how to make our weapons. My hideout is on a ruined planet, where there is still enough tech around to use it for making very good swords and other weapons. Mix enough modern knowledge into the ancient world and you'll get a near unbeatable combination. "
"So you make weapons and trade them around on the worlds. Was there nowhere else to go?" Had he just found another last survivor of an entire civilisation? How many were there, lost, adrift without any place to call home or at least a safe haven?
"There were only few survivors of my world and most of them died, striking back at the Wraith. And those who did not, live much as I do – on their own, at some distance. We would never fit into their villages and small communities, we'd always struggle to fit in, or live as they do. So we just went and live on our own. Being alone means being strong."
"The lion fights alone, and so do I?" John asked. He knew this Lone Wolf mindset from Ronon well enough. And he had come to understand it during those last months.
Together they travelled to the gate. It was not an easy journey. John found himself unable to sleep with a stranger close by. Syrkan was not the least offended, he had expected nothing else. John's reflexes tended to kick in whenever startled. Syrkan was careful but found himself with John's dagger at his throat at least three times. He laughed it off, utterly unafraid. Eventually their journey ended, Syrkan stopped the cart in the woods. "The ring is ahead," he said. "I'll go first, should Wraith be there, you'll know soon enough. But I guess there will be just some traders bickering about who blocks the way through the ring for how long. Wait until it is dark and you should be fine."
"We could go together." John replied. After they had travelled together for two days it would make no difference if they reached the gate together.
Syrkan shook his head. "No, John. If I do not know where you went, I can't betray you. A secret I do not know can't be taken from me by any form of trick or torture." He turned around and took a heavy bundle from the cart. "There – you'll be needing this.
By the length of the bundle John could guess it was a sword, perhaps similar to the one Syrkan himself used. "I can't take this." He tried to refuse but Syrkan wasn't in the mood for a discussion.
"You can and you will. You'll need it. And I'll feel better about leaving you here like this if I know you have some decent weapons." Without waiting for any reply he drove his horses on. John saw the cart going past the next bent in the road then it was gone.
Slowly he opened the bundle. It contained a sword, a sharp, double-edged blade, an assortments of knives and a pistol. John almost dropped the whole bundle. He had seen such a pistol before, but never asked where it had come from.
***
The glances that followed Ronon down the road were moving from distrustful to outright aggressive the longer he was here. The people didn't like questions, they did not like Ronon roughing up two of their number and they clearly distrusted him. "You better go away and ask questions elsewhere," an elderly man advised him. "There is nothing you can learn here."
Ronon ignored him. He was not here to debate with them. Strolling down the lane he reached the end of the village. It did not take much to look around and he did not see the person he had expected sitting on a rock. If Lorne or Teyla had been here, all would have been well, but what was Zelenka doing here? "What has happened? Where are Lorne and Teyla?" he asked.
The Czech scientist look up. "Still your old charming self. It is good to see you again, Ronon," he replied. "Teyla… well her second child is due any day and she could hardly go off-world. Especially as Woolsey is somewhat jumpy these days. And Lorne…"
A cold fear gripped Ronon's soul. Had another comrade fallen to the Wraith? And the Wraith were winning the battles these days. With the High Wraith exerting a firm hand on at least half of the Wraith factions, the 'wild Wraith,' as they called them, the Wraith had become again a force to be reckoned with.
"Lorne was injured in fight," Zelenka said. "And Keller decided that he needed to be sent to Earth for full recovery." An odd smile shone in the eyes of the Czech scientist. "You see, Ronon, sometimes when one power above you becomes to oppressive, you need another equally oppressive force to relieve the weight at least a little."
Ronon understood only half of what Zelenka was saying. "Will Lorne be alright?" he asked.
Zelenka nodded. "Sure he will be, and he will inform some people of many things we have found out since you left. But do not worry about that – did you find out anything about Sheppard or this other Runner?"
Ronon sat down opposite the scientist. "John was seen some months ago on Anchoril, helping people during a culling, and he there is a rumour that he was on Tywara not eight weeks ago. I am on my way there."
Zelenka's eyes shone. "That's great news, Ronon. If you find him, let us know. But don't bring him back to Atlantis until we got some things sorted out."
Ronon frowned. "What ARE you doing, Zelenka?"
Now the Czech looked very serious. "Woolsey might believe himself to be the highest pusher for his masters, but he isn't almighty. And sometimes a little good old fashioned resistance is needed."
Ronon still did not understand, but if the scientists had formed some kind of conspiracy to remove or murder Woolsey it was fine by him. He had a trail to follow.