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Fic! Previous Motives
Ta-da! Yet another in my series of "stories I've been intending to write since, um, forever, but haven't, because I didn't trust myself with them and didn't know how they went". Not, mind you, one of the stories I've been actively promising people, but one I've been meaning to write. Beta thanks times a millionty-one to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
panisdead, who got this back to me super-fast and was the most helpful thing imaginable. Thank you so much! (and, yes, you're right: 0700, 0200. I knew there was something wrong with that...)
Previous Motives
SGA, gen, team
4165 words
*
"I did not realize that Emris had begun to trade again."
Teyla's voice is steady and her back is straight, and the madeer is hemming and hawing, avoiding her eyes, like if he doesn't look at the scary lady, she won't notice him, and he'll be able to disappear. It's not really working, though: the main square doesn't have much cover for a guy who's well over six feet tall and correspondingly broad. Still, he makes a decent effort, and John's kind of impressed.
Of course, impressed doesn't mean he won't shoot the guy, if need be.
There's a glint of light at the corner of his eye—the fruit, the fruit that started this whole damn thing. Massa, Teyla called it, her eyes distant and dark. It doesn't look like much, not really: about the size of an apple, glossy and blue, faceted and gleaming in the afternoon sun. Not like any fruit John's seen before, of course, but that's pretty ordinary, in Pegasus. It's tasty—sort of like raspberries, actually, but crisp and firm. There's still a little bit stuck between two of his teeth, and John worries at it with the point of his tongue, keeping his eyes on the madeer.
It looks like the guy's finally figured out that hiding isn't an option, no matter how scary Teyla gets, because he's looking back up at them and answering her questions. Yes, Emris—who or whatever that is—is trading again. No, not very long; the matheen only came through ten days ago, and then the fruit the day before yesterday. Yes, they looked well. No, he didn't recognize the shields—Emris has never come to them before, although of course they've heard the stories. No, he doesn't know where else they've been; they didn't say.
"And who leads them? Do you know that?" The madeer swallows hard, but nods.
"They—they said that they followed Bsotra."
Another flash of light: the fruit, again, light bouncing from one facet to the next as it shakes in Teyla's hands.
"We should return to Atlantis," she says, and her voice is steady.
***
Weir sees them as soon as they get back. Normally, they only meet same-day if there's been a major injury, an explosion, or something that really, really needs to not go in the official reports, but Teyla is even quieter than usual, and she smoothes her hands around the skin of the fruit without stopping.
The doors close behind them, sealing out the bustle and hum of Atlantis in the early afternoon, and for a long moment there's nothing but silence. Rodney and Ronon are staring at Teyla, who is watching her fingers against the skin of the fruit; Weir is staring at John, eyebrows raised expectantly. Before John can lean in, to bring her back to them, she starts speaking, still looking down at the fruit.
"The alliance between Emris and Athos goes back for ages," she says, "as long as any records can trace. When our towers burned, they offered us shelter and a new home, but we were stubborn, even then, and stayed in the ruins of our glory." She smiles, but doesn't lift her eyes from her hands.
"They respected our desire to rebuild," she says, "and so they kept the trade-lines intact, even though they had little to gain by it. They sent us the best of their trade goods—weapons, tools, things of beauty—and took what we had to offer in exchange without remark, and so we went on." Across the table, Rodney opens his mouth, but shuts it again before anyone other than John can notice.
"There was also a tradition of fostering," Teyla continues, "and this, too, they kept intact. They would send us the youngest child of their emperor for a fivespan of years, and raise in exchange the last of our queen's children. At the end, the children would marry, and would keep homes on both worlds, living as ambassadors and interpreters, keeping love strong and healthy between our people." She sighs, heavy and shuddering, and lifts her head, though her eyes are still closed.
"Bsotra was one such, and so was I, many years ago."
Elizabeth's eyes are gleaming, anthropological fascination bubbling up, and even Rodney looks interested, if shocked. John feels more than a little sick, himself—it makes sense, as diplomatic arrangements go, but the idea spreads a sourness in his stomach. Ronon doesn't look at all surprised, just vaguely sympathetic, and he takes one of Teyla's hands in his, running his thumb along her knuckles. Her fingers press against his hand, and it's got to hurt—Teyla's strong, as the bruises on John's side will attest—but Ronon doesn't flinch.
After a moment, Teyla goes on. "When I was fifteen, in the last year of my fostering, there was a—" she trails off, shaking her head. It's the first time in years that John's seen Teyla at a loss for words. When she starts again, it's even more slowly than before, painful and halting.
"One of the emperor's advisors, Raysh—he tried to take control, but he was killed by the imperial guards. The fighting—" she clears her throat, then continues "—it did not stop with his death. Both of Bsotra's brothers were killed in the fighting, I know—Aklan and Taleeth—Bsotra came back, and sent me back to my world—" she breaks off, breathing harshly, bent forward over the table in a tense, tight arc.
Into the silence, Ronon speaks. "Civil war," he says, and Teyla nods, shaping the words without sound.
"They shut the ring, once I was through. We dialed, but it stayed dark, and it did not open again in all the years my people lived on Athos." Across the table, Elizabeth's eyes are bright, and it's easy enough to guess what she's thinking: if these people can disable their gate at will, and then reconnect it when they're ready to, they have a level of technical sophistication that could be very useful for Atlantis.
"I'm guessing that's why you didn't mention—Emris, is it?—earlier, Teyla?" Teyla nods, and Elizabeth smiles sadly, but presses on. "Teyla, I understand that this is painful for you, but do you think that Emris would be willing to trade with Atlantis? For technology, I mean, and maybe for some of the massa. It sounds like we could both have a lot to offer each other."
Teyla's eyes snap open, wide and bright with shock and tears. She drags in a breath of air, long and shaky, and lets it out in a short, humorless laugh.
"Yes, Dr. Weir, I think that they would be willing to trade with you. In truth, though, I had not thought—that is, it had not been—they are alive," she bursts out, "alive, when for so long—" She stands and turns, and she's out the door before John can so much as stand.
"Of course, Teyla—" Weir's saying, but she trails off when the doors slide shut, cutting off the echo of Teyla as she runs down the hall. Weir sighs, looks around at them all. "Get what you need for a mission to Emris," she says, her eyes heavy on John's, "and go with her."
John nods and stands up. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a line of marks, red and tense, along Ronon's wrist, but Ronon tucks his hands in his pockets and turns away, and that's that.
***
Emris-city, it turns out, is a good ways away from the gate—about two hours' walk, Teyla says. Rodney groans, of course, and then groans again when she admits that it may be more.
"When I came, I was expected—an honored guest. They came to meet me, brought their conveyances, and it took much less time." She looks around them, glancing into the woods.
"Why couldn't we have called ahead?" Rodney mutters, "Because I'd certainly appreciate a conveyance right—hey!" Suddenly, they're surrounded by a group of soldiers, all of them armed to the teeth with actual guns, something along the lines of Ronon's pulse-weapon thing. John's pretty sure these aren't set to 'stun', though. The men are all wearing armor, too—it looks vaguely medieval, heavy breastplates with a rising sun painted on them and helmets with elaborate arrangements of feathers.
John's looking around them, trying to figure out how many there are and where the hell they came from and how many he can take out—three, maybe, and say four each for Teyla and Ronon, but that still leaves entirely too many barrels pointed in their direction. Just as he's deciding that they're well and truly fucked, Teyla steps forward, completely unfazed, and bows deeply to the guy with the biggest feather in his helmet. She's dressed for the occasion, in a heavy robe that drifts around her in shimmering reds and golds, and the guy looks a little unnerved.
"I am Teyla Emmagan, foster-daughter to Emris, leader of Athos, ally and friend to Atlantis." Big-feather guy doesn't manage to hide his surprise, but he bows back, even deeper.
"I am Kasir Yaketh, Captain of the Imperial guard," he says. "What is your business on Emris, Lady?"
"I wish to speak with Bsotra," she says, and he nods, but his eyes flick over to John, Rodney, and Ronon, standing a step or two behind Teyla. She doesn't turn, but John can hear the amusement in her voice when she speaks. "These are my friends, and I will vouch for their honesty," she says, and then, when the Captain looks like he's going to protest, "and that is all you need to know, Captain Yaketh." Yaketh nods again, looking almost pleased, and gestures to his men to stand down.
"We have conveyances waiting, Lady, if you would join us?"
The conveyances, waiting on a road a few minutes away, turn out to be somewhere between flatbed trucks and tanks, with heavy treads and tall metal sides. There are two of them—most of the men go in one of them, but Yaketh and three of his men join John and his team in the other. There are two long benches, facing in, and the Emrisa get in last, blocking them in. It's nothing obvious, but Yaketh's making sure that they aren't getting out to make trouble.
Not that John blames the guy—he'd do the same, in Yaketh's place—but it does make him a little twitchy. Rodney, across from him, is frowning, his shoulders hunched in and his head tucked down; he meets John's eyes and shrugs unhappily. Next to Rodney, Ronon isn't any happier. He curls his hands slowly into fists, then looks deliberately at Yaketh and his men, who are whispering urgently at their end. John shakes his head, though: no sense in killing Yaketh, not when he's taking them where they want to be.
On John's left, Teyla is stiff and still, her eyes closed. She's biting her lip, but she smiles when John raises his eyebrows at her.
"I am well, John," she says. "As you say, 'so far, so good'." Rodney snorts, Ronon grins, and John relaxes and tries to enjoy the ride.
***
The ride is bouncy as hell, but the conveyances are pretty fast, and it's only about an hour before the view over the walls turns from dense forest into open fields. After half an hour of that, they go through a gate—the guards on the top stare down at them, and John resists the urge to wave—and then they're clattering up a street, watching roofs pass by and listening to the sounds of a crowd around them. Teyla's still looking serene, and Yaketh's guys just look glad to be home, so John figures this is all pretty standard.
Gradually, the crowd-sounds fall away. The road smooths out and levels off, and then they're passing through another gate, this one guarded with men who look like they've never been waved to in their lives. A few minutes more, and they jolt to a halt. One of Yaketh's guys opens the back, and they all climb out of the conveyance.
They've stopped in a courtyard, within what is unmistakably a palace, towers and flags and heavy fortifications as far as the eye can see. Equally clearly, someone's called ahead on their behalf, either from the conveyances or from one of the gates, because there's a man greeting Teyla with quick words and deep bows, dismissing the rest of them with barely a glance. He starts toward one of the doors lining the courtyard, but turns back when he realizes that Teyla's not following him.
"These are my friends, Matam," she says, "and as rich in their traditions as you are in yours. They will accompany me to meet with Bsotra." Her voice is sharp and imperious, and Matam bows some more, once for each of the rest of them. It's kind of awkward—people don't bow to John, as a general rule—but he nods back, and that seems to be enough. Matam starts back again, this time beckoning them all along with him, and they go inside.
Inside is a mess of corridors and staircases, and John gives up on keeping track of the lefts and rights after a few minutes. Teyla seems to know where they're going, anyway, and he'd probably have gotten things mixed up. Soon enough, they're in a large, long room, and Matam's bowing again as they file past him.
The room's not empty—John had thought it was, at first, but there's a decent-sized crowd near the other end, centered around a throne. None of the Emrisa are talking, but John can feel their eyes on him as he follows Teyla forward, can feel them taking in his uniform and face and the length of his steps. At the front, Teyla drops into a deep bow without even looking up at the throne, and John quickly does the same, giving Rodney a poke in the side as he goes down. The figure on the throne—Bsotra, at John's guess—lets them stew for a while, and John focuses on the stretch of his muscles and the cadence of Teyla's breathing, keeping himself ready.
"Athos is gone," Bsotra says suddenly. "I went through myself to check, and found my foster-home old ruins."
"We were attacked," Teyla replies, calm as anything, "and took refuge with the people of Atlantis."
"And never thought to tell us? We would have been glad to know of your safety." The words are chiding, condescending; Bsotra sounds like John's tenth grade English teacher, going after kids for missed homework.
Suddenly, Teyla's on her feet, and John is stumbling up after her. A gasp fans out across the crowd behind them, but Teyla doesn't seem to notice at all.
"As I would have been glad to know of yours, Bsotra," she says, "but your gate was still for five years together, and I had nothing but to think you dead, and yours with you." There's a pause, ripe with tension, but then Bsotra nods, smiling slightly.
"So, and so; each has thought the other dead, and yet both live. This is well and good, Teyla Emmagen." The relief from the crowd is palpable, pressing forward in waves; Bsotra clearly has a temper. "You and yours will join me in the antechamber; we have much to speak of." Bsotra turns and leaves in a whirl of green and blue robes, and they follow.
***
"So," Rodney says, leaning over to whisper in John's ear, "did you know Bsotra was a woman?" John shakes his head, because of course he hadn't known—the little that Teyla had said about Bsotra had been general and gender-neutral, although he hadn't noticed it at the time.
He hadn't really thought about it at all, to tell the truth, and that'll teach him to make assumptions, because Bsotra is most definitely female. She and Teyla are down at the other end of the room, near the doors, laughing and talking and crying. Teyla's got one hand on Bsotra's knee, and Bsotra's running her fingers up and down Teyla's arm, like she can't believe this is happening.
Rodney, John, and Ronon are sitting by the window, looking down over the rest of the city. It's a pretty nice place—not as nice as Atlantis, obviously, but cool in its own way. It's got the whole medieval thing going on, with the towers and ramparts, the palace in the center, the city sprawling out around it. From here, it's clear that the buildings get newer, the further you get from the center: up by the castle, it's all big houses and old stone, but John can see apartment blocks, out near the wall, built out of something dull and grey, regular arrangements of windows glinting in the afternoon sun.
He hasn't been listening to Teyla and Bsotra; it would be rude, and he's still kind of weirded out by the idea that Bsotra is Teyla's—wife? girlfriend? ex? None of them seem to fit: they weren't ever married, and it was a political match in the first place, so they're not exactly long-lost lovers. Besides, from what John understands, they were more or less swapped at age ten, so they didn't even really grow up together. Still, people separated for so long deserve some privacy, and John's not going to be the one to listen in.
Not listening doesn't mean not hearing, though, not when John's still not entirely sure they're safe. Besides, Bsotra's voice carries.
"Well and good, Teyla, but it doesn't have to be like this anymore, don't you see?" Teyla's response is too soft for John to make out, but Bsotra's words are perfectly clear. "I mean that you should come here, you and yours; live with us, and leave these people behind." Rodney's eyebrows go up, and Ronon frowns, but they stay seated, playing it like they haven't heard.
Teyla's smarter than that, though, and she knows her team well. When she speaks, she pitches her voice so they can hear her.
"These people have been kind to us, Bsotra, and I count them as dear friends." John can hear the edges in her voice, can feel the understated violence uncurling like a poisonous snake, but Bsotra keeps talking.
"I'm sure they're very nice people, but Teyla, they're not like us. Surely you must see that! You should be back here with us, where you belong, not with these—"
There's a loud thud, and John whirls around just in time to see Teyla walk quickly out the door, slamming it shut behind her before her chair has even finished shivering on the floor. He gets up, thinking he'll go after her, but Bsotra raises a hand and stops him.
"Let her go," she says, the other hand rubbing at her eyes. "She was right to leave. Besides," she adds with a halfhearted grin, "You'll never find her. She lived here for five years, and we haven't changed things around that much." Her face is pale and tired, and John suddenly notices how thin she looks, as though she's been living on short rations for a couple of years. Bone pokes up against the skin at her wrists and her collarbone, and her jaw is a sharp, narrow point. She sees him looking, and meets his eyes without flinching.
"Crops do not plant themselves, Colonel Sheppard," she says, "and it would be wrong of a ruler to eat more than the least of her subjects. Massa is tasty, and good for trade, but it will not feed a nation, even one so diminished as this, and it has been a long time since my people grew anything else." Beside John, Rodney steps forward, offering Bsotra a handkerchief, which she uses to wipe her eyes. She's a very beautiful woman, even with the weight of war on her shoulders and death behind her eyes.
"Come with me," she says, standing up and folding Rodney's handkerchief into her pocket. "I will show you the guest quarters."
***
The guest quarters are cushy, if slightly dusty, with two large bedrooms, four decent-sized beds, and a living room, all hung richly with tapestries. Ronon gravitates to the balcony, looking out at yet another incredible view of the city, and Rodney drops onto the couch with a sigh, digging his laptop out of his bag and tapping at the keys. John hangs back by the door, to thank Bsotra, but she waves him away.
"Time was, we would feast the arrival of allies such as you," she murmurs, tilting her head away from the orange light of the sunset, "but to do so now would, I think, shame us more than it would honor you." He smiles sympathetically, and says not to worry about it. It's not the first time his team has had to live off of their own rations, after all, although he doesn't tell her that. She accepts his reassurances with another sad smile, and turns toward the door.
"Do not worry about Teyla," she says, resting one hand heavily on the frame. "She will return."
John knows that—it's more the question of where Teyla will return that's worrying him—but he doesn't tell Bsotra that, either.
There isn't a feast, but it turns out that they do get dinner; about half an hour after Bsotra leaves, a pair of grave-faced girls dressed in yellow bring them plates of rice and stewed vegetables and tender, savory meat. John looks at the girls, sees the way their skin is stretched over delicate bones, the carefully mended edges of their dresses, the way they look up at him from under their long, straight hair.
He stands up, grabs a chair, and adds it to the four already around the table. They don't stop watching him, and they don't say anything, but they eat the food Ronon puts on their plates, and the shorter one even giggles when Rodney makes faces at the two of them. When they stand to go, she darts forward and kisses John on the cheek, brief pressure and the scent of massa in her hair. The other one just bows, but she stands a little taller as she walks away.
They turn in not long after that—nothing else to do, and the beds are comfortable. Really, though, it's been a pretty slow day, so John's not surprised when he wakes up in the middle of the night. His watch blinks at him, lighting up a patch of stone wall next to the bed: 0700, Atlantis time, which means about 0200, for Emris. The bed across from his is still made, sheets drawn taut and mercilessly clean: Teyla hasn't come back, yet.
Except that she has, because when he steps out into the living room—the lights seemed pretty bright; he might as well try to read a bit—he sees the moonlight catch on her hair. She's sitting out on the balcony, on the wooden bench that sits there, and as John moves further in the room, he sees that she's not alone.
He steps back quickly, wanting to give Teyla and whoever some privacy, but he moves too fast and the other figure looks up. It's McKay, sitting on the far side of the bench with one arm around Teyla's shoulders.
"She wanted me—to leave you, to abandon you like so much rubble," Below them, the city is silent, and John can hear the way Teyla's voice wavers. Rodney shushes her, rubbing his hand awkwardly over her bare shoulder, and glares over at John, beckoning with his chin, until John gets the picture and steps out, settling on Teyla's other side. She doesn't look up, but she takes the hand he offers her, twining their fingers together. John leans closer, feels the side of Rodney's hand against his shoulder, and watches as Teyla presses her face into Rodney's neck.
They sit there for a while—twenty minutes, he thinks, but his hand's at the wrong angle for him to see his watch without letting go of Teyla's hand—when John feels a soft touch on his other shoulder. He looks up, being careful not to jostle Teyla, and meets Ronon's eyes, glittering dark in the half-light of Emris' moons. He's resting his chin on Teyla's head, and as John watches, he reaches his other arm out, settling it on Rodney's shoulder.
Rodney jumps, of course, then lets out his gasp in a hiss of annoyance when Teyla shifts, waking back up. She doesn't say anything, but she leans back against Ronon's chest and squeezes John's hand.
They sit like that, pressed together, until the sun rises.
*
(title and tagline from Homesick, by Kings of Convenience)
panisdead, who got this back to me super-fast and was the most helpful thing imaginable. Thank you so much! (and, yes, you're right: 0700, 0200. I knew there was something wrong with that...)Previous Motives
SGA, gen, team
4165 words
*
"I did not realize that Emris had begun to trade again."
Teyla's voice is steady and her back is straight, and the madeer is hemming and hawing, avoiding her eyes, like if he doesn't look at the scary lady, she won't notice him, and he'll be able to disappear. It's not really working, though: the main square doesn't have much cover for a guy who's well over six feet tall and correspondingly broad. Still, he makes a decent effort, and John's kind of impressed.
Of course, impressed doesn't mean he won't shoot the guy, if need be.
There's a glint of light at the corner of his eye—the fruit, the fruit that started this whole damn thing. Massa, Teyla called it, her eyes distant and dark. It doesn't look like much, not really: about the size of an apple, glossy and blue, faceted and gleaming in the afternoon sun. Not like any fruit John's seen before, of course, but that's pretty ordinary, in Pegasus. It's tasty—sort of like raspberries, actually, but crisp and firm. There's still a little bit stuck between two of his teeth, and John worries at it with the point of his tongue, keeping his eyes on the madeer.
It looks like the guy's finally figured out that hiding isn't an option, no matter how scary Teyla gets, because he's looking back up at them and answering her questions. Yes, Emris—who or whatever that is—is trading again. No, not very long; the matheen only came through ten days ago, and then the fruit the day before yesterday. Yes, they looked well. No, he didn't recognize the shields—Emris has never come to them before, although of course they've heard the stories. No, he doesn't know where else they've been; they didn't say.
"And who leads them? Do you know that?" The madeer swallows hard, but nods.
"They—they said that they followed Bsotra."
Another flash of light: the fruit, again, light bouncing from one facet to the next as it shakes in Teyla's hands.
"We should return to Atlantis," she says, and her voice is steady.
***
Weir sees them as soon as they get back. Normally, they only meet same-day if there's been a major injury, an explosion, or something that really, really needs to not go in the official reports, but Teyla is even quieter than usual, and she smoothes her hands around the skin of the fruit without stopping.
The doors close behind them, sealing out the bustle and hum of Atlantis in the early afternoon, and for a long moment there's nothing but silence. Rodney and Ronon are staring at Teyla, who is watching her fingers against the skin of the fruit; Weir is staring at John, eyebrows raised expectantly. Before John can lean in, to bring her back to them, she starts speaking, still looking down at the fruit.
"The alliance between Emris and Athos goes back for ages," she says, "as long as any records can trace. When our towers burned, they offered us shelter and a new home, but we were stubborn, even then, and stayed in the ruins of our glory." She smiles, but doesn't lift her eyes from her hands.
"They respected our desire to rebuild," she says, "and so they kept the trade-lines intact, even though they had little to gain by it. They sent us the best of their trade goods—weapons, tools, things of beauty—and took what we had to offer in exchange without remark, and so we went on." Across the table, Rodney opens his mouth, but shuts it again before anyone other than John can notice.
"There was also a tradition of fostering," Teyla continues, "and this, too, they kept intact. They would send us the youngest child of their emperor for a fivespan of years, and raise in exchange the last of our queen's children. At the end, the children would marry, and would keep homes on both worlds, living as ambassadors and interpreters, keeping love strong and healthy between our people." She sighs, heavy and shuddering, and lifts her head, though her eyes are still closed.
"Bsotra was one such, and so was I, many years ago."
Elizabeth's eyes are gleaming, anthropological fascination bubbling up, and even Rodney looks interested, if shocked. John feels more than a little sick, himself—it makes sense, as diplomatic arrangements go, but the idea spreads a sourness in his stomach. Ronon doesn't look at all surprised, just vaguely sympathetic, and he takes one of Teyla's hands in his, running his thumb along her knuckles. Her fingers press against his hand, and it's got to hurt—Teyla's strong, as the bruises on John's side will attest—but Ronon doesn't flinch.
After a moment, Teyla goes on. "When I was fifteen, in the last year of my fostering, there was a—" she trails off, shaking her head. It's the first time in years that John's seen Teyla at a loss for words. When she starts again, it's even more slowly than before, painful and halting.
"One of the emperor's advisors, Raysh—he tried to take control, but he was killed by the imperial guards. The fighting—" she clears her throat, then continues "—it did not stop with his death. Both of Bsotra's brothers were killed in the fighting, I know—Aklan and Taleeth—Bsotra came back, and sent me back to my world—" she breaks off, breathing harshly, bent forward over the table in a tense, tight arc.
Into the silence, Ronon speaks. "Civil war," he says, and Teyla nods, shaping the words without sound.
"They shut the ring, once I was through. We dialed, but it stayed dark, and it did not open again in all the years my people lived on Athos." Across the table, Elizabeth's eyes are bright, and it's easy enough to guess what she's thinking: if these people can disable their gate at will, and then reconnect it when they're ready to, they have a level of technical sophistication that could be very useful for Atlantis.
"I'm guessing that's why you didn't mention—Emris, is it?—earlier, Teyla?" Teyla nods, and Elizabeth smiles sadly, but presses on. "Teyla, I understand that this is painful for you, but do you think that Emris would be willing to trade with Atlantis? For technology, I mean, and maybe for some of the massa. It sounds like we could both have a lot to offer each other."
Teyla's eyes snap open, wide and bright with shock and tears. She drags in a breath of air, long and shaky, and lets it out in a short, humorless laugh.
"Yes, Dr. Weir, I think that they would be willing to trade with you. In truth, though, I had not thought—that is, it had not been—they are alive," she bursts out, "alive, when for so long—" She stands and turns, and she's out the door before John can so much as stand.
"Of course, Teyla—" Weir's saying, but she trails off when the doors slide shut, cutting off the echo of Teyla as she runs down the hall. Weir sighs, looks around at them all. "Get what you need for a mission to Emris," she says, her eyes heavy on John's, "and go with her."
John nods and stands up. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a line of marks, red and tense, along Ronon's wrist, but Ronon tucks his hands in his pockets and turns away, and that's that.
***
Emris-city, it turns out, is a good ways away from the gate—about two hours' walk, Teyla says. Rodney groans, of course, and then groans again when she admits that it may be more.
"When I came, I was expected—an honored guest. They came to meet me, brought their conveyances, and it took much less time." She looks around them, glancing into the woods.
"Why couldn't we have called ahead?" Rodney mutters, "Because I'd certainly appreciate a conveyance right—hey!" Suddenly, they're surrounded by a group of soldiers, all of them armed to the teeth with actual guns, something along the lines of Ronon's pulse-weapon thing. John's pretty sure these aren't set to 'stun', though. The men are all wearing armor, too—it looks vaguely medieval, heavy breastplates with a rising sun painted on them and helmets with elaborate arrangements of feathers.
John's looking around them, trying to figure out how many there are and where the hell they came from and how many he can take out—three, maybe, and say four each for Teyla and Ronon, but that still leaves entirely too many barrels pointed in their direction. Just as he's deciding that they're well and truly fucked, Teyla steps forward, completely unfazed, and bows deeply to the guy with the biggest feather in his helmet. She's dressed for the occasion, in a heavy robe that drifts around her in shimmering reds and golds, and the guy looks a little unnerved.
"I am Teyla Emmagan, foster-daughter to Emris, leader of Athos, ally and friend to Atlantis." Big-feather guy doesn't manage to hide his surprise, but he bows back, even deeper.
"I am Kasir Yaketh, Captain of the Imperial guard," he says. "What is your business on Emris, Lady?"
"I wish to speak with Bsotra," she says, and he nods, but his eyes flick over to John, Rodney, and Ronon, standing a step or two behind Teyla. She doesn't turn, but John can hear the amusement in her voice when she speaks. "These are my friends, and I will vouch for their honesty," she says, and then, when the Captain looks like he's going to protest, "and that is all you need to know, Captain Yaketh." Yaketh nods again, looking almost pleased, and gestures to his men to stand down.
"We have conveyances waiting, Lady, if you would join us?"
The conveyances, waiting on a road a few minutes away, turn out to be somewhere between flatbed trucks and tanks, with heavy treads and tall metal sides. There are two of them—most of the men go in one of them, but Yaketh and three of his men join John and his team in the other. There are two long benches, facing in, and the Emrisa get in last, blocking them in. It's nothing obvious, but Yaketh's making sure that they aren't getting out to make trouble.
Not that John blames the guy—he'd do the same, in Yaketh's place—but it does make him a little twitchy. Rodney, across from him, is frowning, his shoulders hunched in and his head tucked down; he meets John's eyes and shrugs unhappily. Next to Rodney, Ronon isn't any happier. He curls his hands slowly into fists, then looks deliberately at Yaketh and his men, who are whispering urgently at their end. John shakes his head, though: no sense in killing Yaketh, not when he's taking them where they want to be.
On John's left, Teyla is stiff and still, her eyes closed. She's biting her lip, but she smiles when John raises his eyebrows at her.
"I am well, John," she says. "As you say, 'so far, so good'." Rodney snorts, Ronon grins, and John relaxes and tries to enjoy the ride.
***
The ride is bouncy as hell, but the conveyances are pretty fast, and it's only about an hour before the view over the walls turns from dense forest into open fields. After half an hour of that, they go through a gate—the guards on the top stare down at them, and John resists the urge to wave—and then they're clattering up a street, watching roofs pass by and listening to the sounds of a crowd around them. Teyla's still looking serene, and Yaketh's guys just look glad to be home, so John figures this is all pretty standard.
Gradually, the crowd-sounds fall away. The road smooths out and levels off, and then they're passing through another gate, this one guarded with men who look like they've never been waved to in their lives. A few minutes more, and they jolt to a halt. One of Yaketh's guys opens the back, and they all climb out of the conveyance.
They've stopped in a courtyard, within what is unmistakably a palace, towers and flags and heavy fortifications as far as the eye can see. Equally clearly, someone's called ahead on their behalf, either from the conveyances or from one of the gates, because there's a man greeting Teyla with quick words and deep bows, dismissing the rest of them with barely a glance. He starts toward one of the doors lining the courtyard, but turns back when he realizes that Teyla's not following him.
"These are my friends, Matam," she says, "and as rich in their traditions as you are in yours. They will accompany me to meet with Bsotra." Her voice is sharp and imperious, and Matam bows some more, once for each of the rest of them. It's kind of awkward—people don't bow to John, as a general rule—but he nods back, and that seems to be enough. Matam starts back again, this time beckoning them all along with him, and they go inside.
Inside is a mess of corridors and staircases, and John gives up on keeping track of the lefts and rights after a few minutes. Teyla seems to know where they're going, anyway, and he'd probably have gotten things mixed up. Soon enough, they're in a large, long room, and Matam's bowing again as they file past him.
The room's not empty—John had thought it was, at first, but there's a decent-sized crowd near the other end, centered around a throne. None of the Emrisa are talking, but John can feel their eyes on him as he follows Teyla forward, can feel them taking in his uniform and face and the length of his steps. At the front, Teyla drops into a deep bow without even looking up at the throne, and John quickly does the same, giving Rodney a poke in the side as he goes down. The figure on the throne—Bsotra, at John's guess—lets them stew for a while, and John focuses on the stretch of his muscles and the cadence of Teyla's breathing, keeping himself ready.
"Athos is gone," Bsotra says suddenly. "I went through myself to check, and found my foster-home old ruins."
"We were attacked," Teyla replies, calm as anything, "and took refuge with the people of Atlantis."
"And never thought to tell us? We would have been glad to know of your safety." The words are chiding, condescending; Bsotra sounds like John's tenth grade English teacher, going after kids for missed homework.
Suddenly, Teyla's on her feet, and John is stumbling up after her. A gasp fans out across the crowd behind them, but Teyla doesn't seem to notice at all.
"As I would have been glad to know of yours, Bsotra," she says, "but your gate was still for five years together, and I had nothing but to think you dead, and yours with you." There's a pause, ripe with tension, but then Bsotra nods, smiling slightly.
"So, and so; each has thought the other dead, and yet both live. This is well and good, Teyla Emmagen." The relief from the crowd is palpable, pressing forward in waves; Bsotra clearly has a temper. "You and yours will join me in the antechamber; we have much to speak of." Bsotra turns and leaves in a whirl of green and blue robes, and they follow.
***
"So," Rodney says, leaning over to whisper in John's ear, "did you know Bsotra was a woman?" John shakes his head, because of course he hadn't known—the little that Teyla had said about Bsotra had been general and gender-neutral, although he hadn't noticed it at the time.
He hadn't really thought about it at all, to tell the truth, and that'll teach him to make assumptions, because Bsotra is most definitely female. She and Teyla are down at the other end of the room, near the doors, laughing and talking and crying. Teyla's got one hand on Bsotra's knee, and Bsotra's running her fingers up and down Teyla's arm, like she can't believe this is happening.
Rodney, John, and Ronon are sitting by the window, looking down over the rest of the city. It's a pretty nice place—not as nice as Atlantis, obviously, but cool in its own way. It's got the whole medieval thing going on, with the towers and ramparts, the palace in the center, the city sprawling out around it. From here, it's clear that the buildings get newer, the further you get from the center: up by the castle, it's all big houses and old stone, but John can see apartment blocks, out near the wall, built out of something dull and grey, regular arrangements of windows glinting in the afternoon sun.
He hasn't been listening to Teyla and Bsotra; it would be rude, and he's still kind of weirded out by the idea that Bsotra is Teyla's—wife? girlfriend? ex? None of them seem to fit: they weren't ever married, and it was a political match in the first place, so they're not exactly long-lost lovers. Besides, from what John understands, they were more or less swapped at age ten, so they didn't even really grow up together. Still, people separated for so long deserve some privacy, and John's not going to be the one to listen in.
Not listening doesn't mean not hearing, though, not when John's still not entirely sure they're safe. Besides, Bsotra's voice carries.
"Well and good, Teyla, but it doesn't have to be like this anymore, don't you see?" Teyla's response is too soft for John to make out, but Bsotra's words are perfectly clear. "I mean that you should come here, you and yours; live with us, and leave these people behind." Rodney's eyebrows go up, and Ronon frowns, but they stay seated, playing it like they haven't heard.
Teyla's smarter than that, though, and she knows her team well. When she speaks, she pitches her voice so they can hear her.
"These people have been kind to us, Bsotra, and I count them as dear friends." John can hear the edges in her voice, can feel the understated violence uncurling like a poisonous snake, but Bsotra keeps talking.
"I'm sure they're very nice people, but Teyla, they're not like us. Surely you must see that! You should be back here with us, where you belong, not with these—"
There's a loud thud, and John whirls around just in time to see Teyla walk quickly out the door, slamming it shut behind her before her chair has even finished shivering on the floor. He gets up, thinking he'll go after her, but Bsotra raises a hand and stops him.
"Let her go," she says, the other hand rubbing at her eyes. "She was right to leave. Besides," she adds with a halfhearted grin, "You'll never find her. She lived here for five years, and we haven't changed things around that much." Her face is pale and tired, and John suddenly notices how thin she looks, as though she's been living on short rations for a couple of years. Bone pokes up against the skin at her wrists and her collarbone, and her jaw is a sharp, narrow point. She sees him looking, and meets his eyes without flinching.
"Crops do not plant themselves, Colonel Sheppard," she says, "and it would be wrong of a ruler to eat more than the least of her subjects. Massa is tasty, and good for trade, but it will not feed a nation, even one so diminished as this, and it has been a long time since my people grew anything else." Beside John, Rodney steps forward, offering Bsotra a handkerchief, which she uses to wipe her eyes. She's a very beautiful woman, even with the weight of war on her shoulders and death behind her eyes.
"Come with me," she says, standing up and folding Rodney's handkerchief into her pocket. "I will show you the guest quarters."
***
The guest quarters are cushy, if slightly dusty, with two large bedrooms, four decent-sized beds, and a living room, all hung richly with tapestries. Ronon gravitates to the balcony, looking out at yet another incredible view of the city, and Rodney drops onto the couch with a sigh, digging his laptop out of his bag and tapping at the keys. John hangs back by the door, to thank Bsotra, but she waves him away.
"Time was, we would feast the arrival of allies such as you," she murmurs, tilting her head away from the orange light of the sunset, "but to do so now would, I think, shame us more than it would honor you." He smiles sympathetically, and says not to worry about it. It's not the first time his team has had to live off of their own rations, after all, although he doesn't tell her that. She accepts his reassurances with another sad smile, and turns toward the door.
"Do not worry about Teyla," she says, resting one hand heavily on the frame. "She will return."
John knows that—it's more the question of where Teyla will return that's worrying him—but he doesn't tell Bsotra that, either.
There isn't a feast, but it turns out that they do get dinner; about half an hour after Bsotra leaves, a pair of grave-faced girls dressed in yellow bring them plates of rice and stewed vegetables and tender, savory meat. John looks at the girls, sees the way their skin is stretched over delicate bones, the carefully mended edges of their dresses, the way they look up at him from under their long, straight hair.
He stands up, grabs a chair, and adds it to the four already around the table. They don't stop watching him, and they don't say anything, but they eat the food Ronon puts on their plates, and the shorter one even giggles when Rodney makes faces at the two of them. When they stand to go, she darts forward and kisses John on the cheek, brief pressure and the scent of massa in her hair. The other one just bows, but she stands a little taller as she walks away.
They turn in not long after that—nothing else to do, and the beds are comfortable. Really, though, it's been a pretty slow day, so John's not surprised when he wakes up in the middle of the night. His watch blinks at him, lighting up a patch of stone wall next to the bed: 0700, Atlantis time, which means about 0200, for Emris. The bed across from his is still made, sheets drawn taut and mercilessly clean: Teyla hasn't come back, yet.
Except that she has, because when he steps out into the living room—the lights seemed pretty bright; he might as well try to read a bit—he sees the moonlight catch on her hair. She's sitting out on the balcony, on the wooden bench that sits there, and as John moves further in the room, he sees that she's not alone.
He steps back quickly, wanting to give Teyla and whoever some privacy, but he moves too fast and the other figure looks up. It's McKay, sitting on the far side of the bench with one arm around Teyla's shoulders.
"She wanted me—to leave you, to abandon you like so much rubble," Below them, the city is silent, and John can hear the way Teyla's voice wavers. Rodney shushes her, rubbing his hand awkwardly over her bare shoulder, and glares over at John, beckoning with his chin, until John gets the picture and steps out, settling on Teyla's other side. She doesn't look up, but she takes the hand he offers her, twining their fingers together. John leans closer, feels the side of Rodney's hand against his shoulder, and watches as Teyla presses her face into Rodney's neck.
They sit there for a while—twenty minutes, he thinks, but his hand's at the wrong angle for him to see his watch without letting go of Teyla's hand—when John feels a soft touch on his other shoulder. He looks up, being careful not to jostle Teyla, and meets Ronon's eyes, glittering dark in the half-light of Emris' moons. He's resting his chin on Teyla's head, and as John watches, he reaches his other arm out, settling it on Rodney's shoulder.
Rodney jumps, of course, then lets out his gasp in a hiss of annoyance when Teyla shifts, waking back up. She doesn't say anything, but she leans back against Ronon's chest and squeezes John's hand.
They sit like that, pressed together, until the sun rises.
*
(title and tagline from Homesick, by Kings of Convenience)