"Renaissance: E is for Enough"
Sep. 8th, 2011 11:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: “Renaissance: E is for Enough”
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: Familiar faces bring unwanted pain.
The green clad man kept whatever pace Arrom set, staying right beside his shoulder and motioning for his men to precede the two along the pathway. Clenching his jaw, Arrom locked his gaze onto the uneven ground, shutting out the friendly inquiries, the casual comments, and the frequent glances that swept in his direction. He felt them watching, their gazes heavy and demanding against his skin, whipping the leaden, viscous swamp of memory within him until it belched up tortured images, words, flashes of pain, and the stench of death and sorrow. He concentrated on his steps, the feel of the cool breeze on his flushed face and the rough texture of the robes against his skin, the soft warmth of Iranya’s scarf around his neck as the man droned on.
“I remember one time, Doctor Jackson and his team got these cool armbands from the Tok’ra – you know who the Tok’ra are, right? That Anise, whew, some outfits-”
… a snarl of anger … “we are not Goa’uld” … a flash of heat, the smell of scorched flesh … “you okay, Danny?” … worry, fear, a blow to his chest and the tormented eyes of a friend over a limp figure falling lifeless to the floor … “Samantha” …
Arrom stumbled and felt a firm grip on his arm. He jerked away, anger spiking, and turned, a harsh rebuke dying on his lips as the soldier pulled back.
“Sorry,” the man offered, a smile twitching his lips upward. “You sure you’re not Doctor Jackson?”
He frowned, mind swimming with the images the man’s words inspired. A denial would not come. A moment later he tore his gaze from Reynolds’ smiling face, lowered his head, and moved off down the pathway in the wake of the others.
Reynolds chuckled to himself and joined him, resuming his incessant narrative. “Anyway, Colonel O’Neill was driving everybody crazy – especially the General – General Hammond. He’d race through the hallways, pull pranks, eat twice his weight in the commissary – it was hilarious.”
… his hip smacked against the cold floor, carefully organized papers in heaps around him … a half-smile kindled both aggravation and comfort … anger … strength … “are you trying to kill me?” … the warmth of a hand on his cheek, arms holding him … “shut up, Daniel” … icy disdain …
He barely kept his steps steady, holding himself tightly, his muscles rigid, against the warring emotions that poured through him. Arrom shook his head to try to dispel the roaring in his ears.
“And Teal’c, well, he scares the daylights out of just about everybody on a good day,” the colonel continued.
… dark eyes so deep, so grave, revealing a grief as profound as his own … a single muscle jumping within a clenched jaw … the tiny shift of a brow that defined the difference between scorn and approval … “false god – dead false god” … a spear of light … a woman’s strangled cry …
Arrom clenched his teeth against the acid that flooded his throat. Names, faces – they dropped like heavy stones into his gut, setting off waves of despair and fear that washed away his carefully built bulwarks, touching every hidden thought, every dark corner he was certain he’d cut off from the light.
His anger surged and he felt his skin flush darkly. All these could not be true memories – the images and words dredged up a mass of conflicting emotions – comfort, loss, trust, regret, wistful hope, and bitter disappointment. They clashed and fought, writhed and struck at one another like snakes – pale snakes within a crystal vase. He could not catch his breath.
Reynolds’ droning voice suddenly cut through his churning thoughts. “And the Major – smart, tough, gave you – ah, Doctor Jackson – a run for his money-”
Arrom slammed shut his mental barriers and wheeled to face the startled soldier.
“Enough!”
Shock flared hotly in Reynolds’ eyes as he lurched to a stop just inches away.
“I am not this Doctor Jackson,” he growled, shaking, his harsh, gravelly voice alien to his own ears. His mouth was dry, his throat tight and thick with unshed tears of rage and shame.
“Sir?”
Arrom glanced up to see that the other men had turned, hands clutching at the weapons they carried.
Reynolds brought his hands up slowly, palms out, yet stood his ground, his eyes blank and his expression a careful mask. “Stand down,” he stated unhurriedly, calm in the face of Arrom’s fury. “We’re fine, aren’t we, Arrom?” He pronounced the name clearly.
Arrom’s panting breath turned to steam in the cold space between them, creating a barrier as thin as his self-control. He narrowed his eyes, the ache in his head now throbbing in rhythm with his pounding heart.
“I do not know you,” he hissed, one hand clutching the soft weave of Iranya’s scarf to his chest, “I don’t know anyone but the people of this land.” He flung out the other hand, pointing towards the village. “These people took me in when I had nothing, when I could barely speak, and gave me a home and new memories to fill my empty mind.” He buried his hand again beneath his robes when he noticed it trembling. “You don’t know me,” he whispered urgently.
“You… you lost your memory?”
Reynolds moved a step nearer and Arrom jerked backwards, lips pulled into a thin line. “I am going back to my village,” he insisted, unwilling to play the man’s game, to suffer any more casual stories, or too familiar touches, or these unwanted overtures of friendship. He blinked into the gathering gloom, the haze of anger blurring the familiar landscape to threatening shadows and jutting obstacles. The sun had disappeared behind the heavy clouds and the air felt colder, more bitter, leaching all warmth from his flesh, biting in his nose, his throat. The men before him turned to move off again.
“No problem, we’re headed that way ourselves,” the green clad man answered evenly.
Arrom nodded, waiting, eyes fixed on the vague horizon. Finally, Reynolds took a few steps down the pathway, leaving him to follow at his own pace.
The familiar broken pillars resembled jagged teeth, poised to devour him, as Arrom moved between them, lowering his head under the lintel of carved blocks that marked the edge of the main settlement. Reynolds’ voice echoed from the tumbled rocks as he walked down the stairway. Arrom set his jaw and turned the corner, his mind stubbornly focused on the anger, the frustration that had claimed him out on the plain. Three figures moved towards him and he felt a hot stab of pain behind his eyes, nearly blinding him.
… dark eyes and light, hovering over him… sharp words and words of affection … a searing light that was torn out of him, erupting from every pore, every nerve on fire, screaming as it left him spent, empty, alone … a thundered warning …
“Daniel?”
No.
Link to F is for Fragile
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: Familiar faces bring unwanted pain.
The green clad man kept whatever pace Arrom set, staying right beside his shoulder and motioning for his men to precede the two along the pathway. Clenching his jaw, Arrom locked his gaze onto the uneven ground, shutting out the friendly inquiries, the casual comments, and the frequent glances that swept in his direction. He felt them watching, their gazes heavy and demanding against his skin, whipping the leaden, viscous swamp of memory within him until it belched up tortured images, words, flashes of pain, and the stench of death and sorrow. He concentrated on his steps, the feel of the cool breeze on his flushed face and the rough texture of the robes against his skin, the soft warmth of Iranya’s scarf around his neck as the man droned on.
“I remember one time, Doctor Jackson and his team got these cool armbands from the Tok’ra – you know who the Tok’ra are, right? That Anise, whew, some outfits-”
… a snarl of anger … “we are not Goa’uld” … a flash of heat, the smell of scorched flesh … “you okay, Danny?” … worry, fear, a blow to his chest and the tormented eyes of a friend over a limp figure falling lifeless to the floor … “Samantha” …
Arrom stumbled and felt a firm grip on his arm. He jerked away, anger spiking, and turned, a harsh rebuke dying on his lips as the soldier pulled back.
“Sorry,” the man offered, a smile twitching his lips upward. “You sure you’re not Doctor Jackson?”
He frowned, mind swimming with the images the man’s words inspired. A denial would not come. A moment later he tore his gaze from Reynolds’ smiling face, lowered his head, and moved off down the pathway in the wake of the others.
Reynolds chuckled to himself and joined him, resuming his incessant narrative. “Anyway, Colonel O’Neill was driving everybody crazy – especially the General – General Hammond. He’d race through the hallways, pull pranks, eat twice his weight in the commissary – it was hilarious.”
… his hip smacked against the cold floor, carefully organized papers in heaps around him … a half-smile kindled both aggravation and comfort … anger … strength … “are you trying to kill me?” … the warmth of a hand on his cheek, arms holding him … “shut up, Daniel” … icy disdain …
He barely kept his steps steady, holding himself tightly, his muscles rigid, against the warring emotions that poured through him. Arrom shook his head to try to dispel the roaring in his ears.
“And Teal’c, well, he scares the daylights out of just about everybody on a good day,” the colonel continued.
… dark eyes so deep, so grave, revealing a grief as profound as his own … a single muscle jumping within a clenched jaw … the tiny shift of a brow that defined the difference between scorn and approval … “false god – dead false god” … a spear of light … a woman’s strangled cry …
Arrom clenched his teeth against the acid that flooded his throat. Names, faces – they dropped like heavy stones into his gut, setting off waves of despair and fear that washed away his carefully built bulwarks, touching every hidden thought, every dark corner he was certain he’d cut off from the light.
His anger surged and he felt his skin flush darkly. All these could not be true memories – the images and words dredged up a mass of conflicting emotions – comfort, loss, trust, regret, wistful hope, and bitter disappointment. They clashed and fought, writhed and struck at one another like snakes – pale snakes within a crystal vase. He could not catch his breath.
Reynolds’ droning voice suddenly cut through his churning thoughts. “And the Major – smart, tough, gave you – ah, Doctor Jackson – a run for his money-”
Arrom slammed shut his mental barriers and wheeled to face the startled soldier.
“Enough!”
Shock flared hotly in Reynolds’ eyes as he lurched to a stop just inches away.
“I am not this Doctor Jackson,” he growled, shaking, his harsh, gravelly voice alien to his own ears. His mouth was dry, his throat tight and thick with unshed tears of rage and shame.
“Sir?”
Arrom glanced up to see that the other men had turned, hands clutching at the weapons they carried.
Reynolds brought his hands up slowly, palms out, yet stood his ground, his eyes blank and his expression a careful mask. “Stand down,” he stated unhurriedly, calm in the face of Arrom’s fury. “We’re fine, aren’t we, Arrom?” He pronounced the name clearly.
Arrom’s panting breath turned to steam in the cold space between them, creating a barrier as thin as his self-control. He narrowed his eyes, the ache in his head now throbbing in rhythm with his pounding heart.
“I do not know you,” he hissed, one hand clutching the soft weave of Iranya’s scarf to his chest, “I don’t know anyone but the people of this land.” He flung out the other hand, pointing towards the village. “These people took me in when I had nothing, when I could barely speak, and gave me a home and new memories to fill my empty mind.” He buried his hand again beneath his robes when he noticed it trembling. “You don’t know me,” he whispered urgently.
“You… you lost your memory?”
Reynolds moved a step nearer and Arrom jerked backwards, lips pulled into a thin line. “I am going back to my village,” he insisted, unwilling to play the man’s game, to suffer any more casual stories, or too familiar touches, or these unwanted overtures of friendship. He blinked into the gathering gloom, the haze of anger blurring the familiar landscape to threatening shadows and jutting obstacles. The sun had disappeared behind the heavy clouds and the air felt colder, more bitter, leaching all warmth from his flesh, biting in his nose, his throat. The men before him turned to move off again.
“No problem, we’re headed that way ourselves,” the green clad man answered evenly.
Arrom nodded, waiting, eyes fixed on the vague horizon. Finally, Reynolds took a few steps down the pathway, leaving him to follow at his own pace.
The familiar broken pillars resembled jagged teeth, poised to devour him, as Arrom moved between them, lowering his head under the lintel of carved blocks that marked the edge of the main settlement. Reynolds’ voice echoed from the tumbled rocks as he walked down the stairway. Arrom set his jaw and turned the corner, his mind stubbornly focused on the anger, the frustration that had claimed him out on the plain. Three figures moved towards him and he felt a hot stab of pain behind his eyes, nearly blinding him.
… dark eyes and light, hovering over him… sharp words and words of affection … a searing light that was torn out of him, erupting from every pore, every nerve on fire, screaming as it left him spent, empty, alone … a thundered warning …
“Daniel?”
No.
Link to F is for Fragile
