"Renaissance: A is for Arrom"
Sep. 3rd, 2011 07:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: “Renaissance: A is for Arrom”
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.
This story is finished. A chapter a day seems reasonable, yes?
Set just as Fallen begins.
Summary: Being: (n) Existence; life; essence.
The blue robes fell heavily against his legs as he walked, the echoes within his mind painting them with other colors – black, tan, green – and he somehow knew they meant to hide him in the darkness, within forests, against blowing sands. Other textures rubbed against his skin – smooth, tough, hugging each leg, each arm, in a way that robes couldn’t – didn’t. The images flashed dizzily through his mind: feeling the cloth beneath his fingers, sharp edges of broken glass tearing at it, leaving it in shreds against blistering skin, a thin sleeve between his hand and a sickening heat, burning… clawing at him… His breathing stuttered in his chest – blood clogging, skin oozing – until he felt his body spreading, thinning, undoing itself into the air around him and he forced his fingers to clutch at the brittle branches near his face. Eyes closed, the rough bark under his fingers, the sharp scent of leaves crushing, pebbles scuffing beneath his feet, the tang of his own sweat – these pulled him back together, reminding him of this place, this body. Alive. Whole. He was real. He was…
Essendo… zijnd… sein…
Arrom. Naked One. Found beneath the lowering sky. He didn’t know how long he’d lain here, tossed unregarded onto this plain, naked, cold, alone – and without any words to describe the sensations that had curled him into a ball and shook him in angry waves from head to foot. Loss. Failure. But, with Khordib’s one question the words had flooded him, smothering, sparking along his skin, behind his eyes, filling the emptiness, stealing breath and making a heart pound that he now could name.
Varlik… etre… istnienie…
Arrom loosed his fingers from the bare tree and touched his face. There had been tears there, but no other outward sign to reveal his inward pain. Faces above him – pale, dotted with two dark eyes, a mouth, a nose – they’d seemed almost right, essentially familiar, triggering a wash of warmth that quickly edged towards fear. He’d lay, gasping, flashes of other eyes, faces both pale and dark beneath other skies had slashed at him, pummeled him, accused him. And Shamda – calm, unsurprised – had stilled the others’ questions, handed him his outer robe and invited him to join them.
Yn bod… sendo… olemassaolo…
Arrom latched onto the man’s quiet words. Story after story unfolded from the village leader as they’d crossed the plain, the men’s pace slowing to match his own stumbling gate. The words trickled along his nerves, fell into the yawning pit within him. He’d wanted to grab onto them, as if they could hold his head above the darkness that sucked at him, darkness that writhed and curdled with horrors, fears, hopes left bloody, and lives broken. He’d found his hand was gripping the elder’s sleeve, tugging at it like a child when one story would finish, silently urging him on.
Siendo… res…
Arrom stood still now, alone on the plain, the branches creaking in the chill breeze, dead leaves stirring into movement before they rested again against the hardening ground, bird calls receding towards the south. Winter had come. And, with it, with the morning frost and shortening days Arrom had turned that clutching darkness to stone.
Arrom felt the tight muscles across his back, the lines deepening on his forehead. The villagers welcomed him kindly, clothed him, fed him, and yet he knew his silences and sorrow had driven them away. He wanted – an unexpected sob thrust itself from his throat – he wanted… but touching their lives was wrong, and he’d shied away from any attempts at closeness, avoiding gentle hands of comfort, smiled greetings, gestures of friendship, knowing, somehow, that he’d only bring them pain.
Today, he’d so easily eluded the usual gaggle of children who daily delighted in his ignorance of the simplest things.
… “… like grinding yaphetta flour – have you ever tried to grind your own flour?” …
… “I’m trying to quit.” …
Sometimes the voices tore loose from their prison of stone and loss gripped him again, brought his hands up to shield his face, to hide from the shame and the guilt that tried to swallow him. No. Not again. Arrom hid in the dark and the silence, stripping away the memory of hands and voices that tried to entangle him, until the surge of memory passed, the voices quieted, and the emptiness grew up again like black, creeping ice.
Arrom. He was Arrom. It was enough. It had to be enough.
He set his face to the east, towards the lifting sun, hazy and dim among the clouds, its heat barely warming his skin. Arrom lowered his head and trudged on, senses now dulled to the crunching leaves and the furtive scurrying of small lives within the crackling brambles. Today he would walk, allowing time to carry him far from the worried eyes of Shamda and from the elder’s care and concern. He shook his head wearily. Of late the elder’s stories had become more pointed, demanding, his voice never wavering from its even cadence as he tried to push and prod a reaction from behind Arrom’s careful control. Soft, earnest words had met him early this morning as he’d left his tent, and Arrom had fled. He’d been shaken, memories too near the surface after another night of restless sleep filled with the flooding streams of nearly forgotten voices struggling to break free, bringing with them the panic, the urge to run, to lose himself again among the ruins, among the ashes of those long dead where hands didn’t rush to touch or eyes to accuse.
His foot scraped a thick stone and he stumbled and raised his eyes. No – not again. He clutched at anger, self-loathing, berating himself for his weakness as he stood, again, defenseless against the draw of this silent grey circle that rose above the horizon. Again his wandering had led here; again his icy control splintered as he stood in its shadow - this thing that tore at his dreams and spilled unwanted light into the darkness he’d wrapped around his soul. Even the words couldn’t hide him.
Chappa’ai… Doorway to Heaven… Annulus… Gateway… Circle of Darkness… Circle of Woes.
“What’s that?”
“That’s your Stargate, Jackson.”
He fell to his knees, hands pressed to his ears to block out the sounds that sent him spiraling into the darkness.
“No… I’m Arrom… Arrom,” he cried.
Link to B is for Buried
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.
This story is finished. A chapter a day seems reasonable, yes?
Set just as Fallen begins.
Summary: Being: (n) Existence; life; essence.
The blue robes fell heavily against his legs as he walked, the echoes within his mind painting them with other colors – black, tan, green – and he somehow knew they meant to hide him in the darkness, within forests, against blowing sands. Other textures rubbed against his skin – smooth, tough, hugging each leg, each arm, in a way that robes couldn’t – didn’t. The images flashed dizzily through his mind: feeling the cloth beneath his fingers, sharp edges of broken glass tearing at it, leaving it in shreds against blistering skin, a thin sleeve between his hand and a sickening heat, burning… clawing at him… His breathing stuttered in his chest – blood clogging, skin oozing – until he felt his body spreading, thinning, undoing itself into the air around him and he forced his fingers to clutch at the brittle branches near his face. Eyes closed, the rough bark under his fingers, the sharp scent of leaves crushing, pebbles scuffing beneath his feet, the tang of his own sweat – these pulled him back together, reminding him of this place, this body. Alive. Whole. He was real. He was…
Essendo… zijnd… sein…
Arrom. Naked One. Found beneath the lowering sky. He didn’t know how long he’d lain here, tossed unregarded onto this plain, naked, cold, alone – and without any words to describe the sensations that had curled him into a ball and shook him in angry waves from head to foot. Loss. Failure. But, with Khordib’s one question the words had flooded him, smothering, sparking along his skin, behind his eyes, filling the emptiness, stealing breath and making a heart pound that he now could name.
Varlik… etre… istnienie…
Arrom loosed his fingers from the bare tree and touched his face. There had been tears there, but no other outward sign to reveal his inward pain. Faces above him – pale, dotted with two dark eyes, a mouth, a nose – they’d seemed almost right, essentially familiar, triggering a wash of warmth that quickly edged towards fear. He’d lay, gasping, flashes of other eyes, faces both pale and dark beneath other skies had slashed at him, pummeled him, accused him. And Shamda – calm, unsurprised – had stilled the others’ questions, handed him his outer robe and invited him to join them.
Yn bod… sendo… olemassaolo…
Arrom latched onto the man’s quiet words. Story after story unfolded from the village leader as they’d crossed the plain, the men’s pace slowing to match his own stumbling gate. The words trickled along his nerves, fell into the yawning pit within him. He’d wanted to grab onto them, as if they could hold his head above the darkness that sucked at him, darkness that writhed and curdled with horrors, fears, hopes left bloody, and lives broken. He’d found his hand was gripping the elder’s sleeve, tugging at it like a child when one story would finish, silently urging him on.
Siendo… res…
Arrom stood still now, alone on the plain, the branches creaking in the chill breeze, dead leaves stirring into movement before they rested again against the hardening ground, bird calls receding towards the south. Winter had come. And, with it, with the morning frost and shortening days Arrom had turned that clutching darkness to stone.
Arrom felt the tight muscles across his back, the lines deepening on his forehead. The villagers welcomed him kindly, clothed him, fed him, and yet he knew his silences and sorrow had driven them away. He wanted – an unexpected sob thrust itself from his throat – he wanted… but touching their lives was wrong, and he’d shied away from any attempts at closeness, avoiding gentle hands of comfort, smiled greetings, gestures of friendship, knowing, somehow, that he’d only bring them pain.
Today, he’d so easily eluded the usual gaggle of children who daily delighted in his ignorance of the simplest things.
… “… like grinding yaphetta flour – have you ever tried to grind your own flour?” …
… “I’m trying to quit.” …
Sometimes the voices tore loose from their prison of stone and loss gripped him again, brought his hands up to shield his face, to hide from the shame and the guilt that tried to swallow him. No. Not again. Arrom hid in the dark and the silence, stripping away the memory of hands and voices that tried to entangle him, until the surge of memory passed, the voices quieted, and the emptiness grew up again like black, creeping ice.
Arrom. He was Arrom. It was enough. It had to be enough.
He set his face to the east, towards the lifting sun, hazy and dim among the clouds, its heat barely warming his skin. Arrom lowered his head and trudged on, senses now dulled to the crunching leaves and the furtive scurrying of small lives within the crackling brambles. Today he would walk, allowing time to carry him far from the worried eyes of Shamda and from the elder’s care and concern. He shook his head wearily. Of late the elder’s stories had become more pointed, demanding, his voice never wavering from its even cadence as he tried to push and prod a reaction from behind Arrom’s careful control. Soft, earnest words had met him early this morning as he’d left his tent, and Arrom had fled. He’d been shaken, memories too near the surface after another night of restless sleep filled with the flooding streams of nearly forgotten voices struggling to break free, bringing with them the panic, the urge to run, to lose himself again among the ruins, among the ashes of those long dead where hands didn’t rush to touch or eyes to accuse.
His foot scraped a thick stone and he stumbled and raised his eyes. No – not again. He clutched at anger, self-loathing, berating himself for his weakness as he stood, again, defenseless against the draw of this silent grey circle that rose above the horizon. Again his wandering had led here; again his icy control splintered as he stood in its shadow - this thing that tore at his dreams and spilled unwanted light into the darkness he’d wrapped around his soul. Even the words couldn’t hide him.
Chappa’ai… Doorway to Heaven… Annulus… Gateway… Circle of Darkness… Circle of Woes.
“What’s that?”
“That’s your Stargate, Jackson.”
He fell to his knees, hands pressed to his ears to block out the sounds that sent him spiraling into the darkness.
“No… I’m Arrom… Arrom,” he cried.
Link to B is for Buried
