Renaissance
Prelude
Renaissance: (n) rebirth
She burned, fury and compassion brightening around her into an impenetrable shield of protection. He lay beside her, unmoving, unaware, his presence dimmed, his brilliance caged by the Others.
“He must be punished.”
“No. He did nothing,” Oma Desala projected, strong, sincere.
“Only because you prevented him.”
“The failing was mine,” she insisted.
A blinding wave of silence buffeted against her but Oma allowed it to pass over and through her and stood, untouched, her charge safe at her side. The presence of the Others diminished, but she sensed their unending vigilance, their concrete accord against her.
She would not waver. She had not erred, offering this one Ascension. His soul pulsed; it glowed and flashed amidst the congealed darkness of humanity. But the ties that she had thought severed at his death had drawn him back again and again to those he’d left behind. And his sadness, even as he reveled at a universe opened before his questing mind, defeated her guidance.
Oma had cleansed his psyche, had rekindled his physical body from the ether when she sensed a separate presence lingering nearby—so young, so very young, and yet his light was fueled by such love and loyalty. “He has chosen,” she whispered, soundless.
“My brother.” The unuttered words rode the gleaming strands of devotion towards her. “So empty.”
“It was his decision to return so.”
A wordless grief expanded to fill the cosmos.
She enfolded the young one with tendrils of support.
“And yet—he blazes.”
A is for Arrom
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.
B is for Buried
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.”
C is for Candlelight
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.
D is for Discovery
A discovery is made with the dawn.
The glistening spears of grass crackled and broke beneath his feet, loud in the stillness that arrived with the colored fingers of dawn reaching above the horizon. Clear skies, a warming breeze, the sight of sunlight dazzling the frozen ground into pinpoints of brightness, each piercing through one layer of the buffering darkness wrapped around his mind. Arrom let the light in, allowed the flickering images to come and go, each with a pang of sorrow, a jolt of hope, a silent shout of laughter, a wash of despair. He let them come, never reaching to grasp a single one as it slipped past.
The braying of the goats on the hillside seemed to keep time with his heavy steps and their dun colored bodies were transformed into a jogging phalanx of green-clad men, chanting nonsense as they passed. A brief flicker of red moved up and down, up and down, singing along a string until it slapped into a waiting hand poised above it. His own hands swept tiny grains of dust and dirt from the shallow lines of an ancient language, the delicate brush moving in and out so gently, tenderly caressing the stone as he would a lover’s face. Soft black hair curled around his fingers, tightening until it became a baby’s clutching grip, the same dark eyes smiling up at him from within his arms. A lingering ache of loss dropped his arms to fall heavily to his sides, empty.
… “I’ll see both of you again someday, right?” …
… “All roads lead eventually to the great path” …
… “Eventually” …
There was an identity there, a name, flowing easily in and around the momentary scenes, the familiar scents and sounds, a place he filled within the ebb and flow of the lives around him. A space beside one, or across a jumbled table, or walking just a step behind. A child’s place within circling arms. A young man struggling beneath a weight of books. And then, older, beneath a weight of grief, and all those spaces with his shape suddenly didn’t fit any more.
His fault? Was the emptiness, the loneliness, the dark, echoing places in his soul that had nothing to do with a failure of memory his fault? The wind whispered that it was true. He lowered his head and allowed the scattered thoughts to seek their own path within him. His punishment, his penitence, judgment, perhaps, for a lifetime of mistakes. This much seemed clear.
… “There is only one thing we can truly control” …
…”What’s that?” …
… “Whether we are good or evil” …
When the pain came again it was blistering, mauling his skin, pulling his breath from his body, pressing dead weight against his chest and Arrom stumbled, vision graying, blood draining so quickly he was surprised to see it had not pooled out onto the plain around him. He fell, knuckles bruising against the frozen ground, knees thudding, sharp pain lancing up through his hips, his belly, his chest. Blinking up into the winter sun he brushed his hands up and down beneath his wide sleeves, expecting open sores, seeping blood, tissues soggy as they wept out the essence of his life. Firm, warm skin, tingling in the chill air met his touch and he frowned.
The hours drifted past as he made his way back, silently, towards the village. The memories came more slowly, almost hesitantly now, as if afraid to throw him back to remembered agony of body or soul. He grimaced. Shamda was wrong—even the light of a candle was too bright, and the comforting darkness was a shield he didn’t know how to discard. Perhaps with time the blaze would dim to a glow, the hurt would not be as sharp, the grief as raw. Perhaps.
Arrom swept aside a slender branch with one hand, exhaustion chilling his skin, shaking through his bones, drawing his face into a frown. One step, and then another. Food, his cot, the comfort of his tent—these would be enough for now.
The sharp crack of a broken branch brought his head up, rushed reaction through his nerves, tightened weary muscles to readiness in an instant. Men. Men wearing the green clothes of his memories rose to stand before him. Confusion sparked anger and Arrom narrowed his eyes. Real or merely phantoms from his dimly veiled past?
One man stepped forward—tall, hands allowing what Arrom knew to be a weapon to fall to his side, his eyes wide in shock, skin paling as his mouth worked open and closed. A whisper of sound drew his attention to a man behind, dark skinned, seemingly just as stunned to be met here, on the path.
“Doctor Jackson?”
… a blue shirt, bald head reflecting harsh lighting, the words gentled with compassion … small, efficient hands holding tightly to his arm, demanding … a sneering face filling the words with contempt … a young man, crouching in fear beside a thick window, the words shouted in terror …
“Doctor Jackson, is it—it’s you, right? Are you all right?”
The first man moved closer and Arrom flinched backwards, avoiding the reaching hand. He closed his mind to the taunting images, the fear, the dread, the miasma of uncertainty.
“Stupid question, Foster,” the man before him snapped, lowering his hand. “Doctor Jackson. Doctor Daniel Jackson,” he urged, as if the repeated name would bring a sort of clarity to this confrontation. “Have you been here all along, sir?”
Arrom’s frown grew deeper at the delighted wonder coloring the strange words. Why was this man so happy? What did he want?
“Arrom,” he touched one hand to his chest.
Eyebrows rose on the man’s blank face. “Arrom? You—you’re Arrom?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“No way, sir,” the dark skinned man’s head shook back and forth. “That’s Doctor Jackson.”
“Okay, Marine, stand down,” the first man warned, one hand raised. “You guys back off a minute.”
Arrom watched closely as the three men walked off a few paces, throwing concerned glances over their shoulders. He remained still, guarded under their scrutiny and the fierce gaze of the man before him, betraying nothing of the wrenching of his gut, the sweat erupting beneath his suddenly thick and strangling robes.
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Scott Reynolds, SG-3. From Earth. The SGC. Stargate Command.” The man’s face shone with hope, expectation.
“I am Arrom,” he insisted.
“Arrom—okay. I guess it could be—but let me tell you, you look exactly like this friend of mine who, ah, got lost about a year ago.” Reynolds shrugged. “I guess you’ve lived here all your life?”
The flicker of doubt must have been clear on his face, as the man surged with victory.
“You haven’t, have you?”
“No—I—” Arrom swallowed his explanation. “I must return to the village.” No. He shouldered past the man, anxious to be away, to find his tent, his cot, to close his eyes and embrace the darkness. One hand clutched at the soft cloth of the scarf still wrapped around his neck. He wasn’t lost. Found. He’d been found.
E is for Enough
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 searing bile 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.
F is for Fragile
His barriers are fragile, the edges sharp.
Dark eyes shadowed by the brim of a cap, guarded, stance deliberately casual even as he seemed drawn forward to meet him at the base of the steps. Blue ones filled with so many emotions—familiar disbelief, eager intensity, wonder—hurrying her steps ahead of the others. And last, a warm regard laced with deep sorrow shining from beneath an emblem of ancient slavery. Arrom felt his barriers crack but clung to the crumbling shards with bleeding fingers, his anger raising one hand to block a touch, to mumble his denial, still hot enough to carry him past the blurred faces, to deafen his ears to their pleading, to blind him to their demanding compassion.
He hurried through the shocked figures of the villagers, no longer calmly welcoming, easily holding out hands of friendship and warmth, but now turned to him in wariness and speculation, afraid of what their welcome had brought them. His steps took him past his own tent, wandering aimlessly, yearning for a place of peace, somewhere he could hide from nearly dear faces and newly distant ones. Familiar steps echoed his own and he knew that Shamda strode silently at his side, patient, waiting, unrushed by either events or emotions.
Arrom stopped and turned to him, searching, eyes burning with unshed tears.
“Shamda—who am I?”
A gnarled hand reached for him, comfortingly heavy on his shoulder. The elder’s face was drawn, the fine lines around his eyes and mouth startlingly deep, his bright eyes revealing a burden of concern, a heaviness of spirit that Arrom had never noticed.
“My friend,” he began, “are you ready for the answer to this question?”
He stared, fear flickering at the edges of his mind. “Shamda?” he whispered.
The hand guided him, stumbling, into the elder’s tent, pushed him down onto a worn cushion, and brushed gently against his cheek before retreating. A heavy mug of tea appeared before him and he watched the old man’s face carefully through the rising steam.
A tender smile touched the thin lips. “My friend, do not mistake a foolish man’s words for the wisdom of the ages,” he cautioned, one finger raised. “Your journey is your own, and, whether to take up the path again from where you wandered off, or to begin the journey anew,” he bowed his head, “is your decision.”
“I don’t.” Arrom swallowed the words that sprang to his tongue. “How—how can I go on when I can’t see the path behind me?”
“‘One’s steps are guided by his past, even though he deny it,’” Shamda quoted.
Mind a whirl of images, Arrom felt the truth the elder uttered. “Whether or not I remember, my feet will still carry me along the path.”
The old man nodded, his face grim, shuttered with resignation. “They will. You must choose whether to go blindly or to reach for those answers these new ‘friends’ offer you.”
“They believe they know me.” Arrom’s cold fingers held stiffly to the warm bulk of the clay cup.
“And will you seek to know yourself as well?”
He raised his eyes to the tiny piece of sky visible through the folded fabric of the tent’s roof. “‘This above all: to thine own self be true.’”
Shamda tilted his head to one side. “There is a story in your eyes, Arrom.”
Arrom allowed a rueful half-smile and lowered his gaze to his cup. “A very old story, told of a young man who is broken by loss and hopelessness and has lost his way along the path. He causes profound sorrow, deep, grievous wounds, and a glut of death. And, although they are not said to him, these words—an old man’s words—resonate throughout the tale with the certainty of truth.” He felt the speech tear through his being. “‘This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’”
“I must hear this story some day, my friend. But, for now, this choice you have been evading since your arrival seems to be forced upon you.” Shamda reached out his hand and touched Arrom’s shoulder once again. “Will you be Arrom, or will you be this Daniel? Which is it that you want?”
… “Daniel? Did you want something?” …
… the musty smell of books, cracked bindings rough beneath his fingers as he packed them away … a figure suffused with light, a golden halo framing serene features and a knowing smile … “I couldn’t leave it alone. I was the one who unburied the ‘gate. What happened to her was my fault” … frozen figures gathered around a bed … “Why do you care?” … emptiness, pain, an ending … “I will have lost one of my greatest friends” … drowning, fighting for breath … “why do we wait to tell people how we really feel” … “admire you a little” … not enough, never enough … “your journey will continue as before” … unworthy, a rush of shame, of bile, guilt blinding him … “what if I don’t want it to” … the light growing, rushing towards him, filling him, reaching into all the empty spaces as he fled …
“Arrom?”
Shamda’s voice pulled him back, drove the bitter taste away. He blinked into the caring eyes, his breath caught in his throat.
“‘I believe that my entire life has been a failure.’” Truth. He felt it vibrate within his chest, searing with an unholy fire, tearing away memory and thought and connection to everyone and everything around him. Failure. The crackle of fire from the heavens. An entire world laid barren and desolate. “I’m being punished.” The words came grunting from deep within his soul.
He didn’t want to lie to this man—this man with the dark, shadowed eyes who struggled for words within his tent. Arrom had fled from Shamda, trying to outrace the certainty he’d discovered in the presence of the elder, his guilt equaled only by his rebellious fury. And it flared, reawakened by the glint of silver hair and the determined assault of this man on his newly reinforced defenses.
Arrom had tried to keep him out, to avoid the knowing gaze, the seemingly careless explanations, denying the immediate bond he’d felt even as the man muttered indifferent accounts of his life, his death. The air was stinging, cruel with change, with the snapping of bonds and the testing of his courage. And, sitting across from this man, Arrom found he could still fight, still resist, as if fighting against him was natural; the expected response.
‘A friend of mine,’ he’d said, the phrase thrown out as if meaningless. But Arrom read the substance there, the weight of those four small words pulled from between thin lips and, again, his walls crumbled.
… “I’m not good at this” …
… “No, you’re not” …
And, suddenly, even if this were the end of all the things he knew, all the comfort of this village and the heady feeling of namelessness Arrom had drawn around himself like a thick blanket, he could not deny the sense of belonging those words had sparked within him, warming his frigid soul.
