The long-awaited (heh) next part!

[etben]

Ronon will never tell Teyla this, but he's been to her planet before.

There was a tradition, on Sateda. At the end of the first eightday, the firsters, newly branded and still slightly drunk on the ceremonial wine, went back to their commons. There, the five-group students would wait, with more wine and a story to tell, a story of treasure buried by a long-dead firstgroup. Each storyteller, leaning on seniority, pretended to have the true gate code, and offered to share it with the firsters, for a share in the gold - and their first ration of alcohol. Naturally, most of the firsters hooted and jeered the storyteller, and kept their alcohol and their dignity. Every year, though, a few groups believed it, and, taking the address, headed off into the darkness.

It was all a joke, of course: each code opened to night on a harmless planet; the directions were incomprehensible and usually messy; the ‘treasure’ was a rude note or a cheap pornograph. When the firsters got back, exhausted and muddy, their alcohol was gone, and nobody would ever admit to knowing where it had been hidden. In their turn, they became part of a five-group themselves, and took their turns telling stories to the firsters.

Ronon had ignored the story when it was first told him, smirking down in his beer at his yearmates and saying nothing. When he’d made his fivegroup, he’d stayed away from the story-ritual, training hard, leaving the funning to others. As Specialist Dex, though, he’d been assigned to go along. He was to remain silent and watchful, keep the firsters from any major hurts or dangers, and call for backup if they ran into anything with more teeth than they had heads.

The firstgroup he followed went to Athos, although of course he didn’t know to call it that, at the time. He remembered it as a nice enough planet, with a gentle breeze and tall, stately trees. He’d stepped through into early summer, and moved easily through the forest behind the firsters as unfamiliar stars rose and fell. They’d mentioned that the world was inhabited, but only to tell him to keep the firsters away from the people. He’d seen the camp, from a distance, tents lit with torches and open firepits. Savages, he’d thought, and let one hand slide to his gun. Later, he’d watched and counted as the firsters slunk dejectedly back through the gate; he followed them, and didn’t think of the place for several years.

If he’d thought about it at all, he might have thought with longing of those tents and torches. He might have looked around at the cave where he was staying, or the hollowed tree, or the thick, thorny bush, and wished for an open firepit, for the flat empty calm of that life. Then again, he had his gun, and his wits, and some of his pride, still, and so he probably still would have scorned those things.

As it turned, he only thought of that planet on the day, nearly a year after his arrival in the City, when Teyla Emmagen pulled him aside one evening. She’d pressed her forehead to his, the way her people did, and traced symbols on his hands. It was only when she reached the fourth - inrish-talmi - that he realized what she was doing, what she was coding on his palms. He had to fight not to jerk away, not to tear his hands from hers and run, run until his legs gave out and his sight turned black. She must have felt him shiver, old currents threatening the new, but she gave no sign. She held his hands tighter, and continued the ritual.

It was never practiced on Sateda, although Specialist Dex had been the recipient of it a few times. He’d scorned it, then, as foolish nonsense. With the knowledge of Sateda behind him, he could find the home to any gate code he wanted, and find a code for any spinning world. What did it matter if a villager from some spotted planet told you their gate-code or not? If you wanted the code, you would get it, and you would go, and take what you needed.

The Runner had never strayed close enough to the settlements to be offered a code, but he would have scorned one, anyway. Trust was a beggar’s joke, a trinket for boys without bombs ticking between their shoulder blades. That was not his way. He composed at random, waited for an arch, and jumped through, all without caring what he found on the other end. If death awaited him there - well, death was here, too, and everywhere, so who would ask where?

Ronon Dex, though, who stands in the halls of the Great City with a queen tracing trust on his palms, understands. It's a custom, among traders from the smaller planets. Sharing a gate address is a sign of friendship, a sign that you trust someone not to come through the gate in your night and rape your family. I trust you, it says. I trust that you will come to my world with peace and with prosperity, and bring to me and mine only more of the same.

When she finishes, he flips their hands, dwarfing her palms in his, and quickly sketches the sequence that calls Sateda. She knows them already, as he could know hers, if he chose, and both worlds are so much scattered dust, now, but it doesn’t matter. Here, and now, Ronon Dex understands that the doing is the thing, no matter the results. Specialist Dex was too important for such things, and Ronon the Runner was too low, too much pressed and flattened by his life. Ronon Dex, though, who runs with Sheppard in the mornings and teaches scientists to shoot in the afternoons, understands this ritual, and all the others. He understands, and he does; the world turns, and for once, he is turning with it, not faster or slower than the ground on which he stands. He is grounded, now - braced.

He rests his head against hers for a long moment more, his braids brushing her forehead and cheekbones. When they straighten, he is smiling, and her eyes are bright. Before she can go, he puts a hand to her shoulder.

“D’you know where Sheppard is?”

At first, Sheppard doesn’t seem to understand him. Ronon does not have Teyla’s gift for languages. Even though he speaks more in one month, here, than he did in all his time as a Runner, the Earth language is hard. A year spent here, and he still struggles to speak easily, naturally. He stops, shakes his head, starts again, watching Sheppard’s eyes.

“There is -” No. That is not the way. Again.

“On Sateda, we had a device. It made -” Sheppard’s nodding, and Ronon reaches for the word. “- images? pictures?” He gestures, makes like he’s using a shayda, and Sheppard nods, understanding.

“A camera? Sure, yeah - I mean, I don’t have one, but I’m sure - yeah, here, hey! Martine!” He’s waving a short, pale woman over to where Ronon stopped him in the hallway. Ronon’s never seen her before, that he remembers, but he’s not surprised Sheppard knows her first name. Sheppard’s good at that, at making friends without giving up too much. Ronon never knows how to go, now, and winds up standing silently by, most of the time.

Martine seems to be just as glad that he’s not trying to make nice, but she smiles at Sheppard and looks into her bag, coming up with a small silver cube. She gives it to Sheppard, who hands it off to Ronon, thanking her cheerfully. As she hurries off, smiling nervously back at Ronon, Sheppard starts to show him how it works. The mechanism is more or less the same, though - a lens, a few buttons and knobs. He thanks Sheppard, who shrugs.

“No problem. Although - you could do me a favor, actually.” He outlines what he wants, and Ronon agrees - a picture of McKay in that ugly pink shirt he wears when he’s off duty, or when he forgets to do laundry and gets slimed, is an odd request, but hey. As Ronon understands it, he’s not supposed to ask or tell about this kind of thing.

Sheppard turns pale when he says this, and flushes, and sputters, and stammers in a way Ronon’s never seen him do before. Finally, choking, he hurries off, telling Ronon to have fun.

Ronon thinks he will.

I'm actually really pleased with this part. Ronon is, as mentioned above, a seriously thinky guy, once you get him going, but I really like his backstory. Although I feel like I may have to go back and rewrite John's part, now - I feel like I just didn't do him justice (he's 400-odd words...Ronon, here, was somewhere around 1,300.)

Again, any title suggestions? For all, um, two of you who are reading this?