"Renaissance: R is for Ransom"
Oct. 18th, 2011 03:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: “Renaissance: R is for Ransom”
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marzipan77
Fandom: SG-1
Pairing: None
Rated: T+ for language and memories of violence
Summary: A series of fics beginning at Daniel’s descent back to Earth from the Ascended Plane. Chapter by chapter, these fics, about 1000 words each, beginning with “A”, will explore Daniel’s attempt to regain his memories, his mortal existence, and his place within the SGC and on SG-1.
Warnings: Angst/Emotional Whump/Memories of Death
Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate, or Jack, or Daniel, or anything but my cats.
Written for the Alphabet Challenge on the Stargate Drabbles List.
Summary: Daniel looks for the key to unlock his memories.
“You tell me.”
The door closed quietly and Daniel was alone, the softly spoken words had been whispered, almost like Jack had been praying, the natural amusement in the man’s dark eyes smothered by a wealth of conflicting emotions. Or perhaps it was Daniel’s new glasses that reflected a depth of turmoil on the older man’s face. It had seemed simpler before the scenes became brilliant and razor-sharp – shades of grey allowing the tenuous connections, the hazy fumbles for purchase on a slippery foundation to feel firm. But the light conversation had died, the silence growing into a chasm between the two as Jack led him here. Had Jack shut Daniel away here in an attempt to shield him, for a time, from an overload of painful memories, or for his own peace of mind?
He was tired. Tired of searching his mind, tired of stumbling, tired of begging for familiarity. And the images and sounds and scents were jumbled within him, leaving him confused and defeated, pain growing behind his eyes.
… no spark now, no life in eyes that once warmed him through, now staring haughtily through him … dead eyes beneath dark curls and a crown of gold … pain, blinding pain in his head, and flooding grief …
Exhaustion fell on him with leaden swiftness, deadening the sensation of thick, curly hair and silken skin beneath his hands that had erupted along his nerves with one glance at the framed picture on the table. Thoughts glazed and foggy, Daniel dropped to the bed, frowning at the walls that circled him, at this unexpected dead end on his journey - one small room, a few books and other items scattered within, and a firmly closed door trapped him in his own personal limbo. He needed to escape, to follow the breadcrumb trail of memory, to find the real and true within the doubt, no matter how much it hurt. To find himself.
Arrom still hovered, plaintively reminding him with every remembered sorrow or flash of guilt of a life of perfect namelessness that awaited him on Vis Uban. And Daniel Jackson – Daniel Jackson was barely balanced, teetering, between hope and regret, tasting a hint of the connection that Jack and the others offered, mental fingers grasping futilely after every suggestion of memory. He closed his eyes and dragged air into lungs almost too tired to expand, his head bowed as if to take up the prayer that Jack had begun.
The slight weight of the metal frames falling to rest in his lap startled him from a doze. Thin, fragile looking things. Daniel twisted them between his fingers. Their cool embrace, metal against his temples, had brought a rush of bright, vibrant images. Sunlight sparkling through shaking leaves, each jagged edge of green sharply outlined. Crisp letters taking shape in flowing lines on a stark white page. A curve came into being, created by his own hand, growing into careful diagrams and tiny concise notes of explanation. If only the lenses could focus his mind’s eye on the past as easily.
Daniel stood and stretched, unwilling to give in to the pull of sleep, the comforting lull of oblivion. He fumbled the glasses back into place one-handed and stepped slowly around the large bed, bending to examine, reaching out to touch an item here and there to try to provoke a feeling, a thought. A few moments later he found himself at the door, one hand pressed flat against the metal surface as if it represented the blindfold drawn across his past and just one pull would reveal it all. He raised his other hand to take hold of the knob and found the framed picture still gripped there.
She was not a fragile beauty – the frank gaze stared out from a strong face, lips parted as if caught in mid word. Somehow he knew that it was that very combination that had doomed her – strength, beauty, a fierce spirit. And him. He’d also played his part.
Daniel moved back to the bed, cradling the picture in his lap. The books at his bedside and this photograph - his personal things, Jack had called them. Not many. Just one photograph. He slid a thumb along her jaw line, across her cheek, feeling skin there warmed by the desert sun. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin to seek out the same warmth, the tickle of sand against his face, the spicy smell of cooking fires, the chatter of the boys playing games of hunt and seek. His muscles relaxed and he curled against the soft spread, his mind hunting and seeking, searching for the key to unlock the door to his memories.
… dancing … there was dancing tonight at the fire … the high pitched squeals of women’s laughter … the beat of drums … the boy with bright, brown eyes and long braids blushed and grinned at the praises of his elders … the old men chanted stories of the battle … and she came to him.
“Danyel.”
She was there, pulling him from his place in the shadows, leading him towards the swaying and jumping villagers, eyes daring him to refuse her.
“My Danyel, let us honor you.”
An old man threw his arms out and roared the crowd to silence. He placed one hand on Daniel’s shoulder.
“We are free, free from the demon god, free from death and slavery and ignorance.” He shook Daniel, making him stumble, and the people laughed, eyes alight. “And this, my good son, has taught us the way!”
The shouts and shrieks drowned out Daniel’s denials as the people swarmed around him, touching his light hair, pulling him into embraces, twirling him among them until they’d all had a chance to touch, to speak, to smile and share their joy. Finally, they released him to spin from the circle of their new dance to rest in the strong arms of the braided youth.
“Danyel – brother – you will be happy here, with us.” A trace of doubt bled through, turning the statement into a question, hesitant on the young man’s tongue.
Slender arms wound around his waist from behind and he felt her chin rest between his shoulder blades. “He will be happy – we will be happy. Always.”
Her voice fell away into darkness, thickened in rage, warm eyes blazing gold.
“Sha’re!”…
Daniel started awake, blinking. “Sha’re,” he whispered to himself. The slender arms that had wrapped him so protectively, the warmth against his back, the tang of her sweat dissolving slowly into the stale air. But he remembered… Daniel remembered.
Author:
marzipan77Fandom: SG-1
Pairing: None
Rated: T+ for language and memories of violence
Summary: A series of fics beginning at Daniel’s descent back to Earth from the Ascended Plane. Chapter by chapter, these fics, about 1000 words each, beginning with “A”, will explore Daniel’s attempt to regain his memories, his mortal existence, and his place within the SGC and on SG-1.
Warnings: Angst/Emotional Whump/Memories of Death
Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate, or Jack, or Daniel, or anything but my cats.
Written for the Alphabet Challenge on the Stargate Drabbles List.
Summary: Daniel looks for the key to unlock his memories.
“You tell me.”
The door closed quietly and Daniel was alone, the softly spoken words had been whispered, almost like Jack had been praying, the natural amusement in the man’s dark eyes smothered by a wealth of conflicting emotions. Or perhaps it was Daniel’s new glasses that reflected a depth of turmoil on the older man’s face. It had seemed simpler before the scenes became brilliant and razor-sharp – shades of grey allowing the tenuous connections, the hazy fumbles for purchase on a slippery foundation to feel firm. But the light conversation had died, the silence growing into a chasm between the two as Jack led him here. Had Jack shut Daniel away here in an attempt to shield him, for a time, from an overload of painful memories, or for his own peace of mind?
He was tired. Tired of searching his mind, tired of stumbling, tired of begging for familiarity. And the images and sounds and scents were jumbled within him, leaving him confused and defeated, pain growing behind his eyes.
… no spark now, no life in eyes that once warmed him through, now staring haughtily through him … dead eyes beneath dark curls and a crown of gold … pain, blinding pain in his head, and flooding grief …
Exhaustion fell on him with leaden swiftness, deadening the sensation of thick, curly hair and silken skin beneath his hands that had erupted along his nerves with one glance at the framed picture on the table. Thoughts glazed and foggy, Daniel dropped to the bed, frowning at the walls that circled him, at this unexpected dead end on his journey - one small room, a few books and other items scattered within, and a firmly closed door trapped him in his own personal limbo. He needed to escape, to follow the breadcrumb trail of memory, to find the real and true within the doubt, no matter how much it hurt. To find himself.
Arrom still hovered, plaintively reminding him with every remembered sorrow or flash of guilt of a life of perfect namelessness that awaited him on Vis Uban. And Daniel Jackson – Daniel Jackson was barely balanced, teetering, between hope and regret, tasting a hint of the connection that Jack and the others offered, mental fingers grasping futilely after every suggestion of memory. He closed his eyes and dragged air into lungs almost too tired to expand, his head bowed as if to take up the prayer that Jack had begun.
The slight weight of the metal frames falling to rest in his lap startled him from a doze. Thin, fragile looking things. Daniel twisted them between his fingers. Their cool embrace, metal against his temples, had brought a rush of bright, vibrant images. Sunlight sparkling through shaking leaves, each jagged edge of green sharply outlined. Crisp letters taking shape in flowing lines on a stark white page. A curve came into being, created by his own hand, growing into careful diagrams and tiny concise notes of explanation. If only the lenses could focus his mind’s eye on the past as easily.
Daniel stood and stretched, unwilling to give in to the pull of sleep, the comforting lull of oblivion. He fumbled the glasses back into place one-handed and stepped slowly around the large bed, bending to examine, reaching out to touch an item here and there to try to provoke a feeling, a thought. A few moments later he found himself at the door, one hand pressed flat against the metal surface as if it represented the blindfold drawn across his past and just one pull would reveal it all. He raised his other hand to take hold of the knob and found the framed picture still gripped there.
She was not a fragile beauty – the frank gaze stared out from a strong face, lips parted as if caught in mid word. Somehow he knew that it was that very combination that had doomed her – strength, beauty, a fierce spirit. And him. He’d also played his part.
Daniel moved back to the bed, cradling the picture in his lap. The books at his bedside and this photograph - his personal things, Jack had called them. Not many. Just one photograph. He slid a thumb along her jaw line, across her cheek, feeling skin there warmed by the desert sun. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin to seek out the same warmth, the tickle of sand against his face, the spicy smell of cooking fires, the chatter of the boys playing games of hunt and seek. His muscles relaxed and he curled against the soft spread, his mind hunting and seeking, searching for the key to unlock the door to his memories.
… dancing … there was dancing tonight at the fire … the high pitched squeals of women’s laughter … the beat of drums … the boy with bright, brown eyes and long braids blushed and grinned at the praises of his elders … the old men chanted stories of the battle … and she came to him.
“Danyel.”
She was there, pulling him from his place in the shadows, leading him towards the swaying and jumping villagers, eyes daring him to refuse her.
“My Danyel, let us honor you.”
An old man threw his arms out and roared the crowd to silence. He placed one hand on Daniel’s shoulder.
“We are free, free from the demon god, free from death and slavery and ignorance.” He shook Daniel, making him stumble, and the people laughed, eyes alight. “And this, my good son, has taught us the way!”
The shouts and shrieks drowned out Daniel’s denials as the people swarmed around him, touching his light hair, pulling him into embraces, twirling him among them until they’d all had a chance to touch, to speak, to smile and share their joy. Finally, they released him to spin from the circle of their new dance to rest in the strong arms of the braided youth.
“Danyel – brother – you will be happy here, with us.” A trace of doubt bled through, turning the statement into a question, hesitant on the young man’s tongue.
Slender arms wound around his waist from behind and he felt her chin rest between his shoulder blades. “He will be happy – we will be happy. Always.”
Her voice fell away into darkness, thickened in rage, warm eyes blazing gold.
“Sha’re!”…
Daniel started awake, blinking. “Sha’re,” he whispered to himself. The slender arms that had wrapped him so protectively, the warmth against his back, the tang of her sweat dissolving slowly into the stale air. But he remembered… Daniel remembered.
