marzipan77 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marzipan77) wrote2011-09-25 10:01 pm
marzipan77) wrote2011-09-25 10:01 pm
Entry tags:
- fic,
- gen,
- renaissance,
- sg-1,
- stargate
"Renaissance: G is for Good-bye"
Title: “Renaissance: G is for Good-bye”
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: Arrom trusts.
The air sat silent, heavy with unvoiced thoughts and nearly uttered remembrances. He watched the man’s strong back as he left the tent and wondered why he’d gone so soon, leaving so few words between them. The thought touched off a spark within him, the faint brush of memories of other times, other places – a bare handful of words, a flick of hands, or a shrug that exposed a wealth of meaning. Arrom stared into the growing darkness, his brows drawn down until the pain in his head throbbed dull flashes behind his eyes. He reached for his flint and struck a flame that speared the gloom, shaking hands just able to carry it to the candle’s wick. It flickered in the chill breeze and he held his breath.
… “Because it is so clear, it takes a longer time to realize it; if you immediately know the candlelight is fire, then the meal was cooked a long time ago” … “You must trust. You must believe” … “Well maybe what I don't believe is that I can light a candle with my mind. You see, I find it a lot easier to use a lighter or matches” …
The small flame burned along the tinder – he watched it as it journeyed back towards his hand. He was caught, unable to move, unwilling to break the spell of memory.
… “Place your hand in the flame” …
Pain. He remembered pain.
… “Why did you tell me to do that?” … “Why did you do it?” … “Because you told me to” … “Because you trusted me” …
Yes. Arrom nodded, unseeing gaze turned inward.
… “Within you is the capacity for trust” …
He released a shaky breath and forced his hand to move towards the second candle. Light. Shamda had been telling him, showing him, that he could not remain in the darkness forever. Light found a way in, crept past the fabric of his tent, stole beneath the clouds, and lit the winter landscape with even its weakest glow. The light would pursue, would chase him with fleeting touches of memory. How long could he run, hiding behind the soft blue robes of Arrom before it pierced him? If he trusted Shamda, he should be the pursuer, should hunt down the truth, dig it up, expose it. Swallow down the pain, the sorrow, the cold despair until he finally found the good, the joy, the warm comfort that surely, surely, would bring it all into balance.
The candle flared, its light stark and pure, and Arrom flinched away from its brightness. Arrom was a simple man, untouched by these sweeping failures that had stood out so fiercely within him. If he heard this woman – this man – if he let their words tear gaping rents in his defenses, Arrom would be lost. His hand reached up and touched the edges of the scarf around his neck. Who would he be?
“Can I come in?”
He quickly blew out the flame and sat back against the cushions, unconsciously drawing the darkness around him. Too much. Too soon. His heart beat wildly.
“Sure.” His throat closed over the word, and, shifting his weight, he tried to force his muscles to relax, to clear his mind of its immediate rejection of anything this woman would say. Arrom was fighting to stay.
The rustle of her movement brought his head up and he was struck to stillness by the honesty in her blue eyes. The man’s had been guarded, sharp, carefully hiding the true depth of his feeling even as he took in everything that slipped past Arrom’s own barriers. Her emotions washed openly across her face.
Arrom listened and found an answering truthfulness on his tongue, until her words became intense, pushing and pulling at him, searing him with her need to make him understand, to mold him back into a shape she would recognize. He turned away, feeling heat across his cheeks even as heard himself promise to consider what she’d said. It was too easy to hurt for her loss, to be caught up in her memories of sorrow and her hope that Arrom would suddenly become this other man – this Daniel – before her eyes.
His sudden fear called her back and he reached nervously for a deeper connection. Her kind smile sent a wash of relief through him that left him shivering, trembling at the thought that perhaps he’d left someone alone, that his abandonment among these people had torn him from a family, a wife, children. His stomach clenched and bile froze within his throat as he returned an empty nod and she turned away.
A moment later, his mind cleared as if flashed through with summer lightning. Brothers, sisters, the man’s careful words, the woman’s insistence – perhaps he had left a family behind. And perhaps they were waiting for him.
Seared fingers crushed the surviving candle flame to smoke, a convenient excuse for his stinging eyes and choking cough. He found the thin cloth of his journal, the woven bag in which he kept his few treasures – his flint, a sharpened stick of charcoal, a leather bag for water. He smoothed his scarf against his skin. Shamda was right - the decision was his, but he could not spend a lifetime trying to keep the memories at bay, carefully crafting his barriers so that not even a brief spark could steal inside. And perhaps it was to these strangers that he owed his debt – to the dark eyed man, the intent woman, the dark-skinned giant who had stood back and watched with a wealth of unspoken support.
He stood, listening to their words, searching his tent for a something – someone - he couldn’t name. He closed his eyes and found Arrom there, within him, fading against the surge of roiling emotions, the confusion of thought, the flooding memory of exploration and discovery. “Good-bye,” he whispered as he took his first step outside the tent.
“He’s going home.”
A/N: Woo-hoo!
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: Arrom trusts.
The air sat silent, heavy with unvoiced thoughts and nearly uttered remembrances. He watched the man’s strong back as he left the tent and wondered why he’d gone so soon, leaving so few words between them. The thought touched off a spark within him, the faint brush of memories of other times, other places – a bare handful of words, a flick of hands, or a shrug that exposed a wealth of meaning. Arrom stared into the growing darkness, his brows drawn down until the pain in his head throbbed dull flashes behind his eyes. He reached for his flint and struck a flame that speared the gloom, shaking hands just able to carry it to the candle’s wick. It flickered in the chill breeze and he held his breath.
… “Because it is so clear, it takes a longer time to realize it; if you immediately know the candlelight is fire, then the meal was cooked a long time ago” … “You must trust. You must believe” … “Well maybe what I don't believe is that I can light a candle with my mind. You see, I find it a lot easier to use a lighter or matches” …
The small flame burned along the tinder – he watched it as it journeyed back towards his hand. He was caught, unable to move, unwilling to break the spell of memory.
… “Place your hand in the flame” …
Pain. He remembered pain.
… “Why did you tell me to do that?” … “Why did you do it?” … “Because you told me to” … “Because you trusted me” …
Yes. Arrom nodded, unseeing gaze turned inward.
… “Within you is the capacity for trust” …
He released a shaky breath and forced his hand to move towards the second candle. Light. Shamda had been telling him, showing him, that he could not remain in the darkness forever. Light found a way in, crept past the fabric of his tent, stole beneath the clouds, and lit the winter landscape with even its weakest glow. The light would pursue, would chase him with fleeting touches of memory. How long could he run, hiding behind the soft blue robes of Arrom before it pierced him? If he trusted Shamda, he should be the pursuer, should hunt down the truth, dig it up, expose it. Swallow down the pain, the sorrow, the cold despair until he finally found the good, the joy, the warm comfort that surely, surely, would bring it all into balance.
The candle flared, its light stark and pure, and Arrom flinched away from its brightness. Arrom was a simple man, untouched by these sweeping failures that had stood out so fiercely within him. If he heard this woman – this man – if he let their words tear gaping rents in his defenses, Arrom would be lost. His hand reached up and touched the edges of the scarf around his neck. Who would he be?
“Can I come in?”
He quickly blew out the flame and sat back against the cushions, unconsciously drawing the darkness around him. Too much. Too soon. His heart beat wildly.
“Sure.” His throat closed over the word, and, shifting his weight, he tried to force his muscles to relax, to clear his mind of its immediate rejection of anything this woman would say. Arrom was fighting to stay.
The rustle of her movement brought his head up and he was struck to stillness by the honesty in her blue eyes. The man’s had been guarded, sharp, carefully hiding the true depth of his feeling even as he took in everything that slipped past Arrom’s own barriers. Her emotions washed openly across her face.
Arrom listened and found an answering truthfulness on his tongue, until her words became intense, pushing and pulling at him, searing him with her need to make him understand, to mold him back into a shape she would recognize. He turned away, feeling heat across his cheeks even as heard himself promise to consider what she’d said. It was too easy to hurt for her loss, to be caught up in her memories of sorrow and her hope that Arrom would suddenly become this other man – this Daniel – before her eyes.
His sudden fear called her back and he reached nervously for a deeper connection. Her kind smile sent a wash of relief through him that left him shivering, trembling at the thought that perhaps he’d left someone alone, that his abandonment among these people had torn him from a family, a wife, children. His stomach clenched and bile froze within his throat as he returned an empty nod and she turned away.
A moment later, his mind cleared as if flashed through with summer lightning. Brothers, sisters, the man’s careful words, the woman’s insistence – perhaps he had left a family behind. And perhaps they were waiting for him.
Seared fingers crushed the surviving candle flame to smoke, a convenient excuse for his stinging eyes and choking cough. He found the thin cloth of his journal, the woven bag in which he kept his few treasures – his flint, a sharpened stick of charcoal, a leather bag for water. He smoothed his scarf against his skin. Shamda was right - the decision was his, but he could not spend a lifetime trying to keep the memories at bay, carefully crafting his barriers so that not even a brief spark could steal inside. And perhaps it was to these strangers that he owed his debt – to the dark eyed man, the intent woman, the dark-skinned giant who had stood back and watched with a wealth of unspoken support.
He stood, listening to their words, searching his tent for a something – someone - he couldn’t name. He closed his eyes and found Arrom there, within him, fading against the surge of roiling emotions, the confusion of thought, the flooding memory of exploration and discovery. “Good-bye,” he whispered as he took his first step outside the tent.
“He’s going home.”
A/N: Woo-hoo!