"Renaissance: B is for Buried"
Sep. 4th, 2011 12:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: “Renaissance: B is for Buried”
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?
Summary: Daniel – Arrom – angst. His memories aren’t all pie and cherries.
Arrom slowed his pace as he neared the ruins where the villagers had made their homes. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, rubbing the sleeve of his robe over his flushed face even as the panic urged him to run, to shout out their danger to the peaceful men and women, to gather up the laughing children in his long arms and force them into hiding, into safety. His heart pounded, his breath panting puffs of steam into the cold air as he turned from the calm scene and rested his back against a broken pillar. He closed his eyes tightly, willing the horrifying visions away, fighting to submerge them once again beneath the dark emptiness he’d cultivated for so long. But, although the screams faded in the whistle of the rising wind, and the smell of blood and pain transformed into the harsh fragrance of roasting meat in the cooking pits, a deeply sunken awareness of fear and loss remained.
When he could trust his limbs to a steady, deliberate pace, and trust his steely mask to conceal the choking grief that had erupted as he stood beneath the great grey ring of stone –
… “Stargate… Stargate… Chappa’ai” …
Arrom made his way between the groups of figures, nodding and smiling tightly to murmured greetings and gracefully avoiding the fleeting touch of hands. His eyes scanned wildly, trying to pick out the white-haired figure of the village elder among the blurred blues and browns of the robed shapes. He ducked beneath an arched lintel and turned to make his way down the stone steps and into the gathering of tents, his relief at the sound of the familiar droning voice setting his knees to trembling.
Shamda stood, hands clasped behind his back in his traditional pose, the words of his story falling easily from his lips as he spoke to a small group of young men who were stretching out hides to dry in the weak winter sun. Suddenly, the blue robes are transformed to tan, heat scorching, sand swirling, black braids falling down around the boys’ determined faces, their hands busy with darker, more desperate efforts. Another stiff figure, beard grey, radiating dignity, addressing young men who were loathe to hear him.
… “You will bring disaster to all of us, son.” …
Arrom set his jaw and shook his head, forcing the vision away.
“Shamda,” his voice was louder, more abrupt than he intended. The surprised look on the elder’s face made him pause. “I’m sorry,” Arrom ducked his head, “sorry to interrupt, but I must speak with you.”
One young man, Yaasur, flashed a quick smile. “It is all right, Arrom,” he hurried to assure him, exchanging relieved glances with the others, “Really. It is fine.”
The elder sighed, allowing a quelling glance to linger on Yaasur’s face before he gestured an invitation for Arrom to walk beside him.
“You are troubled, my friend.”
Arrom stuffed his cold, shaking hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Shamda – the stone ring out on the plain…”
The older man nodded calmly, his voice even. “Ah, yes. It has stood so as long as time remembers, Arrom. The stories tell us that, by its power, our people once traveled a different path, on a much longer journey than our feet can walk in these days. They called it Ya-eger Manget Makakal in the old tongue.”
“The Path Between,” Arrom replied, frowning, the words slipping from his mind between one heartbeat and the next.
Shamda hesitated for only a moment before continuing his winding journey through the tents. Finally, he shrugged. “It rests silently among the shattered stones – why does it cause you pain, my friend?”
“I don’t –” Arrom swallowed. “I don’t know.” He heard the edge of fear in his own voice and reached out to snag the elder’s sleeve, stepping quickly in front of him. “It’s dangerous, Shamda,” he stared into the storyteller’s quiet regard, urging him with clutching hands and blazing eyes to hear him. To listen. To understand. “It brings death and horror, blood and pain.”
The smell of seared flesh, the biting tang of blood on the air, the screams of the darkly-braided boys overwhelmed him and only Shamda’s strong hands kept him upright.
“We have to bury it,” he muttered, Shamda’s soothing words barely grazing his skin as his gaze turned inward -
… “As soon as we're gone I want you to close it, bury it, put a big, heavy cover stone over it—nothing good can ever come through this 'gate. Do you understand me?” …
Fear – grief – a loss so deep, guilt so pure that it burned his soul to ashes. Arrom felt the tears slide down his face.
… “you came through” …
No. His fault. He’d let evil through the ‘gate.
… “ you came through” …
“No!” he shouted, denial tearing its way from his throat, drowning out the words in his mind. He opened his eyes to the elder’s troubled face, to the concerned stares of the villagers now gathered around. “Shamda, please, we must bury the Stargate. Now.”
The elder placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have remembered this, my friend?” His voice was gentle, warm, his kind gaze settling tenderly on Arrom’s face. “Your memory returns?”
Muscles rigid, Arrom took in a deep lungful of air. “No.” He kept his own gaze even, open, denying the power of the images, words, and sensations that gripped him. “No,” he insisted firmly, “I just… I just know.”
Shamda shooed away the watching villagers with a few flips of his fingers and then carefully led Arrom back to his tent. He stood, waiting, as Arrom’s panic fled and his heartbeat calmed from its hammering rhythm. A few moments later, the elder straightened and placed both hands behind his back.
“I would tell you the story of the flightless bird, but, somehow,” a smile curved the old man’s mouth, “I think you have heard many, many more stories than even I can tell in your young life.”
Arrom’s gaze darted back and forth as words poured through his mind in a soft lilting voice that warmed him even as it left him empty again. “I’m not hiding my head in the sand, Shamda,” he insisted as his mind grew silent.
“Are you not?” The question was quiet, but the elder’s eyes glowed with a firm persistence. “How long will you be ‘Arrom,’ and stand naked among those who would be your brothers, your friends, who would clothe you with their memories?”
“I’m not-”
“You are,” Shamda nodded. “Perhaps your fear of the stone ring is a fear of taking up your own journey. And, perhaps,” he moved closer and set one hand against Arrom’s cool cheek, “that is something that will not be buried so easily as you would wish.”
Link to C is for Candlelight
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?
Summary: Daniel – Arrom – angst. His memories aren’t all pie and cherries.
Arrom slowed his pace as he neared the ruins where the villagers had made their homes. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, rubbing the sleeve of his robe over his flushed face even as the panic urged him to run, to shout out their danger to the peaceful men and women, to gather up the laughing children in his long arms and force them into hiding, into safety. His heart pounded, his breath panting puffs of steam into the cold air as he turned from the calm scene and rested his back against a broken pillar. He closed his eyes tightly, willing the horrifying visions away, fighting to submerge them once again beneath the dark emptiness he’d cultivated for so long. But, although the screams faded in the whistle of the rising wind, and the smell of blood and pain transformed into the harsh fragrance of roasting meat in the cooking pits, a deeply sunken awareness of fear and loss remained.
When he could trust his limbs to a steady, deliberate pace, and trust his steely mask to conceal the choking grief that had erupted as he stood beneath the great grey ring of stone –
… “Stargate… Stargate… Chappa’ai” …
Arrom made his way between the groups of figures, nodding and smiling tightly to murmured greetings and gracefully avoiding the fleeting touch of hands. His eyes scanned wildly, trying to pick out the white-haired figure of the village elder among the blurred blues and browns of the robed shapes. He ducked beneath an arched lintel and turned to make his way down the stone steps and into the gathering of tents, his relief at the sound of the familiar droning voice setting his knees to trembling.
Shamda stood, hands clasped behind his back in his traditional pose, the words of his story falling easily from his lips as he spoke to a small group of young men who were stretching out hides to dry in the weak winter sun. Suddenly, the blue robes are transformed to tan, heat scorching, sand swirling, black braids falling down around the boys’ determined faces, their hands busy with darker, more desperate efforts. Another stiff figure, beard grey, radiating dignity, addressing young men who were loathe to hear him.
… “You will bring disaster to all of us, son.” …
Arrom set his jaw and shook his head, forcing the vision away.
“Shamda,” his voice was louder, more abrupt than he intended. The surprised look on the elder’s face made him pause. “I’m sorry,” Arrom ducked his head, “sorry to interrupt, but I must speak with you.”
One young man, Yaasur, flashed a quick smile. “It is all right, Arrom,” he hurried to assure him, exchanging relieved glances with the others, “Really. It is fine.”
The elder sighed, allowing a quelling glance to linger on Yaasur’s face before he gestured an invitation for Arrom to walk beside him.
“You are troubled, my friend.”
Arrom stuffed his cold, shaking hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Shamda – the stone ring out on the plain…”
The older man nodded calmly, his voice even. “Ah, yes. It has stood so as long as time remembers, Arrom. The stories tell us that, by its power, our people once traveled a different path, on a much longer journey than our feet can walk in these days. They called it Ya-eger Manget Makakal in the old tongue.”
“The Path Between,” Arrom replied, frowning, the words slipping from his mind between one heartbeat and the next.
Shamda hesitated for only a moment before continuing his winding journey through the tents. Finally, he shrugged. “It rests silently among the shattered stones – why does it cause you pain, my friend?”
“I don’t –” Arrom swallowed. “I don’t know.” He heard the edge of fear in his own voice and reached out to snag the elder’s sleeve, stepping quickly in front of him. “It’s dangerous, Shamda,” he stared into the storyteller’s quiet regard, urging him with clutching hands and blazing eyes to hear him. To listen. To understand. “It brings death and horror, blood and pain.”
The smell of seared flesh, the biting tang of blood on the air, the screams of the darkly-braided boys overwhelmed him and only Shamda’s strong hands kept him upright.
“We have to bury it,” he muttered, Shamda’s soothing words barely grazing his skin as his gaze turned inward -
… “As soon as we're gone I want you to close it, bury it, put a big, heavy cover stone over it—nothing good can ever come through this 'gate. Do you understand me?” …
Fear – grief – a loss so deep, guilt so pure that it burned his soul to ashes. Arrom felt the tears slide down his face.
… “you came through” …
No. His fault. He’d let evil through the ‘gate.
… “ you came through” …
“No!” he shouted, denial tearing its way from his throat, drowning out the words in his mind. He opened his eyes to the elder’s troubled face, to the concerned stares of the villagers now gathered around. “Shamda, please, we must bury the Stargate. Now.”
The elder placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have remembered this, my friend?” His voice was gentle, warm, his kind gaze settling tenderly on Arrom’s face. “Your memory returns?”
Muscles rigid, Arrom took in a deep lungful of air. “No.” He kept his own gaze even, open, denying the power of the images, words, and sensations that gripped him. “No,” he insisted firmly, “I just… I just know.”
Shamda shooed away the watching villagers with a few flips of his fingers and then carefully led Arrom back to his tent. He stood, waiting, as Arrom’s panic fled and his heartbeat calmed from its hammering rhythm. A few moments later, the elder straightened and placed both hands behind his back.
“I would tell you the story of the flightless bird, but, somehow,” a smile curved the old man’s mouth, “I think you have heard many, many more stories than even I can tell in your young life.”
Arrom’s gaze darted back and forth as words poured through his mind in a soft lilting voice that warmed him even as it left him empty again. “I’m not hiding my head in the sand, Shamda,” he insisted as his mind grew silent.
“Are you not?” The question was quiet, but the elder’s eyes glowed with a firm persistence. “How long will you be ‘Arrom,’ and stand naked among those who would be your brothers, your friends, who would clothe you with their memories?”
“I’m not-”
“You are,” Shamda nodded. “Perhaps your fear of the stone ring is a fear of taking up your own journey. And, perhaps,” he moved closer and set one hand against Arrom’s cool cheek, “that is something that will not be buried so easily as you would wish.”
Link to C is for Candlelight
