"Renaissance: C is for Candlelight"
Sep. 5th, 2011 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: “Renaissance: C is for Candlelight”
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.
Arrom is struggling.
Arrom sat cross-legged on the deep piled rugs just within the low-hanging awning of his tent, never minding the occasional drop of freezing rain that fell against his face, his hands, gradually turning the blue of his robes to the color of the stormy sky. Now and then a breath of wind brought a lingering touch of warmth from the fire within the circle of huddled tents, still smoldering beneath the crude, wooden structure meant to shield it from the elements while its golden glow reminded the villagers of the sun that had not been seen for days.
The rain had begun a few hours after he’d spoken with Shamda about burying the ‘gate, and Arrom had stood silently beneath the downpour, still aching with the pain of unrealized memories and unwanted scenes of death and destruction playing across his vision until the elder had pushed him into his tent with chidings and mutterings. And here he’d stayed. Now and then he’d watched as a family splashed across the open plaza, parents hurrying beneath burdens of baskets and bundles, children giggling just out of reach, until they plunged within the canvas walls of a friend or loved one. Sometimes voices rose above the hissing fall of icy pellets – laughter, songs, stories shared and solitude eased as each tent was turned into a small island of warmth among the freezing mud of winter.
His eyes no longer sought out the flickering embers of the central fire, nor the flashes of color that accompanied scurrying figures. Instead, Arrom simply watched the thin sheath of ice grow up around the few blades of grass just outside his tent that defied the deepening winter, counting the colors reflected in the dimming light of day, feeling that same icy shell spread within his soul. The deep green grass seemed preserved there beneath its glass-like covering, perfect, alive, waiting to be discovered. An artifact of the now bygone spring. Perhaps Arrom’s own past was as well preserved.
A rustling sound and the brush of movement against his cheek startled him into blinking his tired eyes before lifting them to the hunched figures suddenly bustling within his tent.
“Tsk, tsk – even the stupidest beast knows enough to find shelter in a storm, Arrom.” Shamda hooked one arm around his shoulders and drew him away from the drafty opening to his tent. Fingers plucked at the darkened fabric at the edge of his sleeves, along the hems of his vest-cloak, scattering thin ribbons of ice onto the damp rugs. The old man shook his head and clucked his tongue again. “Foolish!” he snapped, his voice somehow scolding and kind at the same time and Arrom gasped at remembered affection, dark eyes that held a depth of tenderness and exasperation, the furtive scent of rich spices and wheat and grain. The elder had tugged the damp covering from his shoulders before he noticed.
“Iranya,” Shamda gestured towards the dark-haired woman who had settled a large, steaming pot on the low table deep within the tent. “Bring another cloak and shirt from the chest.”
“Wait – I’m fine –” Arrom protested, trying to brush grasping hands from his clothing as his words echoed dully in the air.
“If you act as a child, my friend, then as a child will you be treated.” Shamda took a half step backwards holding his hand out, demanding, until Arrom struggled out of his wet clothes and dropped them there. He stood, shivering, half-naked, beneath the pale, nearly mocking gaze.
Iranya – oldest daughter of the village elder and mother of three strong sons of her own, smiled and winked from behind the old man’s back before filling Arrom’s arms with warm, dry garments. Arrom couldn’t help but grin in return, feeling a flush rise along his pale skin that he hurried to cover with the blue cloth.
“Now,” Shamda clapped his hands. “I am hungry and my daughter’s stew is best eaten hot.” He made himself comfortable on one side of the table and spooned generous portions into two clay bowls.
Arrom turned to thank the woman for her kindness, but the look of sadness that shadowed her broad, plain face caught the words in his throat. She stood silently before him, a length of intricately woven fabric held between her callused hands. Arrom unconsciously bent forward as she reached up to loop the long scarf behind his neck once and again, finally smoothing the soft ends against his chest with light, timid movements. He pressed one hand against hers, flattening it gently against his shirt, and she looked up to smile again into his puzzled gaze.
“This belonged to my dear Rhandan,” she offered simply. “He was taken from us two winters ago.”
He felt his eyebrows rise. “A son?”
She nodded. “My firstborn,” she added, slipping her hand from beneath his to poke one finger towards him in accusation. “He died of the winter fever. You,” her finger stabbed at him again, “who came to us a gift dropped from the gods, are not to seek to follow him in your sadness.”
… “… my son …my son… I lost my son…” …
Arrom knew the sheen in her eyes matched his own and he lowered his head, ashamed, ashamed to mean so much to these people. How… they shouldn’t care… how could they care so much?
A feather-light touch through his hair and she was gone.
“I would listen to her,” Shamda advised around a mouthful of stew.
The smell drew him towards the table and he took his place across from the old man, reaching for the brimming bowl. The warm silence grew around them as they ate and the darkness deepened. Arrom finished last, slowly wiping a piece of flatbread through the thin glaze of sauce that coated his bowl, unwilling to disturb the air that seemed thick with unspoken thoughts.
“Why do you sit here in the dark, my friend?”
A scraping sound – a spark - a flare of light caught and held to the wick of a soft, yellow candle, chasing the shadows back from the bright circle that now cradled the two men.
“Is that not better than stumbling in the darkness?”
… “better to light a candle than curse the darkness” …
Arrom frowned, unconvinced. “Is it?”
Shamda nodded, his eyes glittering in the simple glow. “Yes, my friend. The light of one candle is enough until the day dawns.”
Arrom turned and let his gaze shift from the single flickering flame to the empty doorway and the darkness that crouched there. “The rain is letting up,” he muttered, listening to the quiet, empty now of the relentless hiss and hammer of the icy drops.
The elder stood and shuffled towards the door. He took a deep breath of the evening air and blew it out. “The dawn will be bright, my friend.”
Arrom swallowed against a lump in his throat. “Shamda,” he breathed, his hands clenching against each other.
The grey-haired man drew his robes about him and peered up into the sky. “Ah. Even the brightest stars seem as nothing more than flickers of distant candlelight in a great field of darkness.”
A cold shiver crept down Arrom’s spine and he reached out one finger towards the candle’s flame, holding it there for just a moment too long. He blinked at the sudden pain. “It still burns,” he whispered.
Link to D is for Discovery
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.
Arrom is struggling.
Arrom sat cross-legged on the deep piled rugs just within the low-hanging awning of his tent, never minding the occasional drop of freezing rain that fell against his face, his hands, gradually turning the blue of his robes to the color of the stormy sky. Now and then a breath of wind brought a lingering touch of warmth from the fire within the circle of huddled tents, still smoldering beneath the crude, wooden structure meant to shield it from the elements while its golden glow reminded the villagers of the sun that had not been seen for days.
The rain had begun a few hours after he’d spoken with Shamda about burying the ‘gate, and Arrom had stood silently beneath the downpour, still aching with the pain of unrealized memories and unwanted scenes of death and destruction playing across his vision until the elder had pushed him into his tent with chidings and mutterings. And here he’d stayed. Now and then he’d watched as a family splashed across the open plaza, parents hurrying beneath burdens of baskets and bundles, children giggling just out of reach, until they plunged within the canvas walls of a friend or loved one. Sometimes voices rose above the hissing fall of icy pellets – laughter, songs, stories shared and solitude eased as each tent was turned into a small island of warmth among the freezing mud of winter.
His eyes no longer sought out the flickering embers of the central fire, nor the flashes of color that accompanied scurrying figures. Instead, Arrom simply watched the thin sheath of ice grow up around the few blades of grass just outside his tent that defied the deepening winter, counting the colors reflected in the dimming light of day, feeling that same icy shell spread within his soul. The deep green grass seemed preserved there beneath its glass-like covering, perfect, alive, waiting to be discovered. An artifact of the now bygone spring. Perhaps Arrom’s own past was as well preserved.
A rustling sound and the brush of movement against his cheek startled him into blinking his tired eyes before lifting them to the hunched figures suddenly bustling within his tent.
“Tsk, tsk – even the stupidest beast knows enough to find shelter in a storm, Arrom.” Shamda hooked one arm around his shoulders and drew him away from the drafty opening to his tent. Fingers plucked at the darkened fabric at the edge of his sleeves, along the hems of his vest-cloak, scattering thin ribbons of ice onto the damp rugs. The old man shook his head and clucked his tongue again. “Foolish!” he snapped, his voice somehow scolding and kind at the same time and Arrom gasped at remembered affection, dark eyes that held a depth of tenderness and exasperation, the furtive scent of rich spices and wheat and grain. The elder had tugged the damp covering from his shoulders before he noticed.
“Iranya,” Shamda gestured towards the dark-haired woman who had settled a large, steaming pot on the low table deep within the tent. “Bring another cloak and shirt from the chest.”
“Wait – I’m fine –” Arrom protested, trying to brush grasping hands from his clothing as his words echoed dully in the air.
“If you act as a child, my friend, then as a child will you be treated.” Shamda took a half step backwards holding his hand out, demanding, until Arrom struggled out of his wet clothes and dropped them there. He stood, shivering, half-naked, beneath the pale, nearly mocking gaze.
Iranya – oldest daughter of the village elder and mother of three strong sons of her own, smiled and winked from behind the old man’s back before filling Arrom’s arms with warm, dry garments. Arrom couldn’t help but grin in return, feeling a flush rise along his pale skin that he hurried to cover with the blue cloth.
“Now,” Shamda clapped his hands. “I am hungry and my daughter’s stew is best eaten hot.” He made himself comfortable on one side of the table and spooned generous portions into two clay bowls.
Arrom turned to thank the woman for her kindness, but the look of sadness that shadowed her broad, plain face caught the words in his throat. She stood silently before him, a length of intricately woven fabric held between her callused hands. Arrom unconsciously bent forward as she reached up to loop the long scarf behind his neck once and again, finally smoothing the soft ends against his chest with light, timid movements. He pressed one hand against hers, flattening it gently against his shirt, and she looked up to smile again into his puzzled gaze.
“This belonged to my dear Rhandan,” she offered simply. “He was taken from us two winters ago.”
He felt his eyebrows rise. “A son?”
She nodded. “My firstborn,” she added, slipping her hand from beneath his to poke one finger towards him in accusation. “He died of the winter fever. You,” her finger stabbed at him again, “who came to us a gift dropped from the gods, are not to seek to follow him in your sadness.”
… “… my son …my son… I lost my son…” …
Arrom knew the sheen in her eyes matched his own and he lowered his head, ashamed, ashamed to mean so much to these people. How… they shouldn’t care… how could they care so much?
A feather-light touch through his hair and she was gone.
“I would listen to her,” Shamda advised around a mouthful of stew.
The smell drew him towards the table and he took his place across from the old man, reaching for the brimming bowl. The warm silence grew around them as they ate and the darkness deepened. Arrom finished last, slowly wiping a piece of flatbread through the thin glaze of sauce that coated his bowl, unwilling to disturb the air that seemed thick with unspoken thoughts.
“Why do you sit here in the dark, my friend?”
A scraping sound – a spark - a flare of light caught and held to the wick of a soft, yellow candle, chasing the shadows back from the bright circle that now cradled the two men.
“Is that not better than stumbling in the darkness?”
… “better to light a candle than curse the darkness” …
Arrom frowned, unconvinced. “Is it?”
Shamda nodded, his eyes glittering in the simple glow. “Yes, my friend. The light of one candle is enough until the day dawns.”
Arrom turned and let his gaze shift from the single flickering flame to the empty doorway and the darkness that crouched there. “The rain is letting up,” he muttered, listening to the quiet, empty now of the relentless hiss and hammer of the icy drops.
The elder stood and shuffled towards the door. He took a deep breath of the evening air and blew it out. “The dawn will be bright, my friend.”
Arrom swallowed against a lump in his throat. “Shamda,” he breathed, his hands clenching against each other.
The grey-haired man drew his robes about him and peered up into the sky. “Ah. Even the brightest stars seem as nothing more than flickers of distant candlelight in a great field of darkness.”
A cold shiver crept down Arrom’s spine and he reached out one finger towards the candle’s flame, holding it there for just a moment too long. He blinked at the sudden pain. “It still burns,” he whispered.
Link to D is for Discovery
