Fic: You can run with us 6/?

[valandhir]

Author: Flaim aka Darkfalconheart

Story: You can run with us. (6/?)

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. 3800

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: Here we go, the next chapter of the story. Things are moving and twisting along. The chapter title I nicked from one of my favourite poems by W.H. Auden.

 Also, 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.

 

 

6. He disappeared in the death of winter

 

I’m a man on the run,

And a man on the run,

Is a dangerous one…

 

(John Agard: Listen Mr. Oxford don)

 

John Sheppard pushed a stubborn, frozen strand of hair out of his eyes and looked up to the dark grey skies overhead. For days there had been only heavy clouds trailing along in the perpetual icy wind. Snowflakes were falling down, dancing in the gale like a white veil. Involuntarily John began rubbing his hands  against his arms. The cold wasn’t getting to John’s bones, it had already gotten there days ago. Winter had come had and fast to this desolate world. His eyes narrowing he stared ahead, trying to discern the bath before him from the white whirling snow. But it was hard. The whole landscape around him had become a white field, spotted with some dark shapes of rocks and trees under a deep grey sky, that poured down an endless flood of snow.

During the last five days, while he was making his way back to the gate, John had seen the land vanish beneath a thick white blanket. If he had not lost his sense of direction the gate should be right ahead of him, in nor more than three or four hours distance. He could only pray that the Wraith would not show up for another hunt. He was already tired from the wild chase of the last days, the frozen land had held next to no edible plantlife and there had been no animals around either.

Trudging along in the snow, he recognised the tall rockformation he had seen not far from the gate, when he had raced away from it, the Wraith in hot pursuit. The last part of his march would be the most dangerous. There were no woods any more to lend him some cover. The gate was situated right on a plain of stone and rocks, offering no shelter and scarce cover. When he arrived John had nearly perished on the red and grey stone grounds of the plain.

Now the whole plain was covered thick with snow, only here and there was a rock looking out under the frozen blanket. John approached this territory very careful. Some of the rocks provided a meagre cover to hide behind, allowing him to observe the open areas ahead before actually crossing them. Thus he managed to get on, if slowly. Sometimes he  could hide only in the snow until he was sure that the path was clear.

A cold feeling, that had nothing to do with the fell winter around him, welled up inside him, like a cold that never would go away. It got stronger and stronger the closer her came to the gate.  He knew this to be a warning, he had felt it before. There were Wraith close by. Lurking somewhere, waiting or hunting, he didn’t know. But they would guard the gate, that much was sure.

John ducked low and crept on. If those Wraith were not hunting, but here on some other odd mission from their hive, they might not have too close an eye on the gate. For a while things went well, John snuck past a Wraith patrol and found cover behind a mushroom shaped rock. The gate was straight ahead, but it was heavily guarded. The Wraith were clearly expecting someone. John froze in place, when one of them checked his scanner. They would know he was there this instant. But then the Wraith pointed in another direction! From beneath the snow a man jumped up, sword in his hands, beheading the first wraith, stabbing a second one. John jumped up too, his shots killed three Wraith before they could get close. Then they reached him.

The fight was a blurr, there were more Wraith than John would usually have taken on, but somehow he managed to hold out, killing them one after the other. The second man had fought his way to the DHD and killed the Wraith guarding it, and dialled out. One of John’s opponents spun around throwing a long dagger. John kicked the Wraith into stumbling, but the blade was already thrown, and the aim was true: it hit the man at the DHD into the back. He collapsed, breaking to his knee, somehow marshalling his last strength, he reached up and with his dying breath activated the dialling sequence.

Even in the middle of the madness of the fight, John understood: the other man might not have been able to save himself, but he had opened a way to escape John might use John dodged another attack, his blade cutting through the body of yet another Wraith. The fight became a blur of hacking, stabbing, slashing, spinning and attacking, a murderous dance that John could not stop or slow down. Again he spun, always fast, always attacking and always deadly.

It seemed to take ages for the dialling to finish. Was it only him, or did the dialling take longer than usual? He did not know, speeding up the fight, he pushed through to the gate, reaching it just in time when the dialling sequence eventually finished. It had taken too long, John was sure about that. But he had no choice, another troop of twenty Wraith emerged from a dart-beam. John jumped into the open gate, entrusting himself to the wormhole.

 

It was only his runner reflexes that saved John’s life the moment he fell out of the gate. Instinctively he had let himself fall down, rolling away from the gate. The Wraith that had obviously managed to jump after him, wasn’t so lucky. He stood right in front of the gate when the wormhole collapsed. John only saw a shadow from above swooping down, claws gripping the Wraith, ripping him up from the ground. John crouched down, it was dark here, he stayed hidden. Great Wings swooped up again and from above, carried farther and farther away John heard the screams and howls of the Wraith.

He stayed down, just looked up, to take in his surroundings. He was lying behind a pile of rubble, left of the gate. They were on the outside, a warm wind was whispering through the darkness. Under the light, shed by a small blueish moon, John could see ruins around him, and a ravine falling down not far away. When his eyes searched the skies he saw only unknown constellations and… there were shadows moving high up in the dark skies. Winged shadows hardly visible, in the darkness. All of sudden John felt like he was followed by watchful eyes.

 

***

 

Ronon knew a setup when he saw one. And this trader had been far too afraid, when he delivered his hastily spun tale. Shaking and stuttering all the time he managed to amuse Ronon quite well. That’s why Ronon went to check out who was so stupid to set him up. He had to return to the gate anyway. His other informant here, an grouchy old man who was kind of a huntsman, had told him he had seen John no ten days ago and seen the address John had dialled when getting out of here, the Wraith chasing behind him. Not, that the old man had parted with this information out of the goodness of his heart. But after Ronon had taken care of some unwanted son-in-law, the old man had gladly told him all he knew.

Ronon grinned when he walked back to gate. Beating up whoever had hired this trader and then he’d go and find John. This was a good day, the best in a long time. In front of the DHD Ronon found a man – another local if his clothes were any indication – tied up and gagged. He bent down and relieved the man of his gag. “And who spun you in like this?”

The man’s eyes bulged, panicking he stared at something behind Ronon’s shoulder. Ronon spun around, usually nobody managed to sneak up on him. But there – only a few steps away stood a man, pointing a gun right a Ronon.  Only a little shorter than Ronon, long black hair and straight, proud bearing that still betrayed his proud past. “Jircanor!” Ronon couldn’t help but grin. He knew Jircanor would probably angry, because of the picture, but he was ready to deal with it.

“Ronon Dex.” Jircanor’s voice was cool as a glacier on his long lost homeworld. “A group of walkers told me of a man who was looking for me, who showed them a drawing of me.”

“How do you know it was me?”

“A man seven feet tall, with wild auburn hair, he had the reflexes of a runner and yes, the worst table manners they ever encountered.’” Jircanor quoted, but he did not manage to keep the cool stare. His lips twitched. “It’s good to see you again, Ronon.” He said putting the gun away.

“It’s great to see you are still alive.” Ronon’s hug could easily have broken some bones of Jircanor, had Ronon not been careful.

Jircanor freed himself after a moment. His hands still on Ronon’s shoulders. “You are moving fast these days, I tracked you across a dozen worlds.”

“I searched for you, because of the message, for a while.” Ronon explained. “I failed to meet you.”

Jircanor cut the bound man loose, he ran a s fast as he could, and both men sat down on the roots of a gigantic tree that shadowed the gate. “I waited as long as I could, for you to show up.” Jircanor explained. “But in the end I assumed, that the Lanteans are like all other nations and don’t take Runners back.”

Ronon frowned. “They took me in, Jir. And what has this to do with John?” A painful suspicion suddenly rose in Ronon. Should the Wraith have bestowed the same dread fate, he once had haced, on John?

“You didn’t know?” Jircanor asked. “They made him a Runner. And from what I heard, he is handling himself well. He’ll be a legend, like you, in a year or two.”

“A Runner…” Something in Ronon reeled against the idea that John had been running all this long last year. He vividly remembered his first year as a runner. The madness, the fighting, the exhaustion, the never ending hunt and… the terrible loneliness. Before Cayelan picked him up, Ronon had feared he’d go mad sooner or later, become some kind of wild animal, only killing and hunting.

Jircanor could read much of Ronon’s thoughts on his face. The grief and pain that had nearly driven Ronon mad, had been with him a long time. “Tyvar tried to cross roads with John.” He said comfortingly. “He will get better along with a Lantean, than I do and he’ll teach John what he can.”

Ronon shook his head. “Won’t be necessary. I know the world where John went, and when it comes to introducing to our secrets, I can do that myself.”

Jircanor arched an eyebrow. “You?”

“I was a runner, I can be one again, if need be.” Ronon said firmly, rising to his feet. “If you want to help me, come along and decipher the next address, in case John already went to the next planet.”

Jircanor rose too. “I don’t doubt your abilities, Ronon. You were the strongest runner, except for Cayelan perhaps. But why? You managed what most of us never will manage: you stopped running. You did what, Ezár, Tiskan and Lycor still hope to do, and what men like Cayelan, Shakar and me only can dream of doing. You did it, you found another home. Why will you start running again? If it is important for you, I’ll look out for your friend myself. He is doing well and will be a Runner, they tell about in many years to come.”

Ronon could hear the silent desperation in Jircanor’s voice. Jir had no chance to stop running, his first transmitter had been in his arm, and he had cut it out himself, as he had with the second, in the shoulder. But the third one the Wraith had implanted in him, sat directly inside his spinal cord. Removing it would kill Jir. “I would never have made it, had John not saved me.” He said. “He was the one, who offered me to remove the transmitter, who brought me to Atlantis. He insisted that I stay, he got the others to trust me, to give me that chance. Without him…” Ronon shook his head, unable to speak on. “Wherever he goes, I go. End of story.”

“Never look an Ancient one in the eyes, you’ll loose your soul to him.” Jircanor whispered an old saying of his people. Louder he said. “Well then, Ronon: let’s get moving.”

 

Ronon dialled the address, the old man had given him. Jircanor was guarding his back. It felt good to meet Jircanor again. There were no hidden snags here, as it had been with the Satedans, not traps, no demands on his loyalty. Sometimes Running made things easier. Together they moved up to the gate, falling easily back into the back to back formation, when they stepped through the gate.

 

***

 

Night onboard the Daedalus. Col. Caldwell didn’t need to look into the small briefing room, to know that the german Captain was still up and working. He could hear the low tunes of music, form the laptops speakers. After General O’Neill had made some slightly unnerved comment about all too much Mussorsgy and Borodin, Schmiedberg had switched to some Cossak marches, while he was reading through yet another set of files. Silently Caldwell studied the young man, who was absolutely absorbed with his work. He could only imagine the political machinations, which brought the young man here. He probably had no idea what a mess he was stepping in, or what kind of lacklustre organisation had been commonplace on Atlantis.

“Colonel Caldwell, I didn’t hear you coming, Sir.” Dietmar Schmiedeberg looked up from his work.

Caldwell entered the room, instead hovering in the doorway any longer and closed the door behind him. “You have been working until late every night since we started.” ,he observed. “Even the IOA could not pile up so many files at once.”

“To be quite honest, Sir: The most of this is background reading, old mission reports, background files, other reports of the last six years of the Expedition.” He gestured to the screen, filled with a huge text. “Bringing myself up to par with all the things that I need to know before reaching Atlantis.”

Caldwell took a chair and sat down himself. He was still somewhat sore, that he had not even been considered for the job. A second failure in that department. But he did not blame Schmiedeberg for this. The young man had been dragged into this. From what Caldwell had understood, and easily guessed, Schmiedeberg had just been introduced to the whole SG secret. “This must be a confusing read.” ,he pointed to the laptop. “But it will hardly cover the mess, this command has been the last some years.”

Schmiedberg’s gaze fixed on Caldwell. His grey eyes were somewhat startling, cold and of a kind that usually belonged behind a sniper scope. “It is, Sir. And more than once the different reports are contradicting each other. Be it the Siege reports, the reports about Lt. Ford or the reports on the Replicator topic.”

“I can imagine that.” Caldwell replied. “and there was much that was left out of all reports, to make them not more contradicting as they already were. It comes with writing reports that will be read by politicians. But I won’t hassle you with more details.”

“Sir, If it is not too much of bother to you – you were there, your opinion would be very enlightening.”

Caldwell nodded. “To understand the situation, it is necessary to go back to Col. Sumner’s unfortunate demise. He was shot on the first mission by his second in command, John Sheppard.” Caldwell launched into the tale, detailing the events from the moment the Daedalus had arrived to assist Atlantis during the siege. The fact, that the younger Officer listened very attentively, sometimes made notes, and now and then asked a polite question, encouraged him to detail his view on the Atlantis command, the various leaders of Atlantis and Col. Sheppard meticulously. It was already morning, when he came to the changes he had implemented during his short stint in command of Atlantis, while John Sheppard had been infected by the retrovirus. Dietmar Schmiedeberg took more detailed notes, being clearly interested and Caldwell went on to the changes he had planned, but never gotten the chance to implement. It seemed there were still young officers who valued experience and were willing to learn.

 

The longwinded corridors of the Daedalus were an ideal running ground, but to get to Dietmar’s full daily running distance he had to cross the ship more than one time. It was the day after his long talk to Caldwell and he had started with his usual training. When he reached the long corridor close to the outer hull, he saw Caldwell standing at one of the small windows. The Colonel gestured him to slow down. Dietmar reduced his running speed and came to a halt.

Caldwell scrutinized him. “You came through here four times, how many miles are that?” he asked, not too unfriendly.

“Twenty kilometres, Sir.” Dietmar replied, his breath was still flying, but it got regular again fast.

“Twenty? I thought fifteen were usual KSK fare?”

“Sir, running seems to be the usual state of affairs in Pegasus, so I decided to keep up.” Dietmar replied, his personal reasons to drive himself well beyond his personal limits, were nothing the Colonel needed to know.

Caldwell took that answer with a wry smile. “A wise decision, nevertheless.” He looked around, checking the grounds. “I am not here to chatter idly, Captain Schmiedeberg.” He said then. “I believe the IOA did you know favour appointing you to this post. And I dislike good people being used as potential scapegoats by some politicians who could have known better.”

Schmiedeberg straightened. “Thank you, Col. Caldwell. I appreciate that, Sir. You expect more messes than we already know about, Sir?”

Caldwell nodded. “I guess you never worked with Col. Sheppard? He is a walking menace at times.”

“We met in Afghanistan. I get the picture.”

Caldwell listened up. “So you know what you are walking into?”

“Sir, let’s just say I have a very good idea.”

 

***

 

When the nothingness of the gatetravel erupted into the physical world again, Ronon De stumbled over a dead Wraith. He fell, rolled over and came back to his feet. Over a dozen dead Wraith littered the steps in front of the gate, and there were more of them. Their blood colouring the snow. Raising his gun he checked the area, but there was no one alive except them. “this must be over twenty dead Wraith.” He said in awe.

“I told you, when it comes to the head count, your friend is giving you a run for your money.” Jircanor replied. “he is a warrior born.” Jircanor carefully stepped down to the DHD, stepping over the various corpses of Wraith. Kneeling down beside the fallen there, he sighed. “Oh no, this is Tyvar.”

Ronon hurried over and bent down himself. Between the dead Wraith lay a man, whom Ronon had only known by reputation. He had died by a blade in the back, his hand still stretched for something, out of reach. He had gone down fighting. Jircanor gently closed the dead man’s eyes. “Rest in silence, Tyvar of the Pacramár,” he whispered. “beyond that eternal night you lived in, there is peace. Safe harbour, my friend.”

Ronon knew the prayer for the dead, had heard it when they had buried what remained of Cayelan. “Rest in peace.” He had heard these words from John, years ago, and in a way they symbolised all a Runner could hope for. “We need to find out the address, John fled to.” He said after a moment of silence. Runners had never much time to mourn their lost ones. If you heard of a friend perished you spoke a prayer, if you still had a kind of faith, or you just wished him safe harbour, and went on.

Jircanor nodded silently and began removing the plating of the DHD. “This won’t take long. We rigged this gate up for our purposes some years ago. Swiftly he shifted the position of some crystals, before connecting a small pad to the system. Ronon watched him silently. He had never learned how to do this. But then, except for Cayelan and Jircanor, there was only one more Runner who knew how to do this. “Wraithblood!” Jir cursed.  “this last address must have been dialled by Tyvar.”

Ronon took a look at the pad and froze. Instead of the usual seven symbols he saw an address that had four additional signs. He shuddered. “A dead world address. Do you know which one it is exactly?”

Jircanor scowled. “Yeah, your favourite spot in the dark space. Tyvar must have hoped the whole Wraith contingent after him and under the claws of the Jhem.”

Ronon bit his lip, he knew of which world Jircanor was speaking. In his nightmares he found himself sometimes back in that long destroyed colony deep in the dead space. And he had not been alone then, John – he had no idea where he had been stranded and he would be unable to dial out without knowing the correct code. “We need to get after him.”

Jircanor already reconfigured the crystals. “Don’t worry, Ronon. We’ll get him out. He is tough and resourceful. He’ll manage until we get there.”

Silently Ronon began to dial the gate again. He could not speak, the fear he felt was not for himself, but for John, stranded in a place, Ronon hardly dared to remember.