The Lost and the Forgotten

Chapter 8

Clinging to the debris of the stream bed, his lungs straining, Ronon could hear the beat of the fans.  He had no time to think who, or why, or even what had become of his attacker.  He concentrated furiously, knowing his time was short and his chance slim; beat, beat, beat, like the flash of the railtrucks before he jumped.  Beat, beat, beat: he let go.  The current took him, and there was battering noise and churning froth and a heavy blow to his left thigh, then, from brown murkiness, he plunged into black.  He fought and kicked and gasped in a lungful of air, but his next mouthful was water and he choked and thrashed, realised he was falling, filled his lungs once more with air, and then gasped in shock, inhaling more water, this time icy cold.  He felt himself forced down by a pummelling, thrusting weight and Ronon fought; he fought hard, and he kept fighting and felt no pain, even though his left leg and right arm wouldn't respond as they should.  Over and over he tumbled in the churning current until suddenly his head was above water and he heaved in great gasping breaths of freezing air.  The powerful flow took him, on and on into darkness; he could see nothing, and his numbness and exhaustion tricked his senses so that he felt motionless, suspended in a void.  He tried to feel the current and swim with it, but his limbs were heavy and dragging, so he focussed on staying afloat, keeping his mouth and nose out of the water.

Then, at last, he could see: grey, indeterminate points and highlights at first, faint, silvery outlines of rocky walls and shimmering water, then glaring brightness that became stronger and more luminous and impossibly brighter, until he screwed his eyes shut in pain.

His feet dragged and he lifted them up.  They dragged again and he felt, not harsh, skin-tearing rock, but soft, forgiving sand.  The current slackened.  His legs grounded again; he thrust down and his body surged out of the water.  He fell, weak with cold and exhaustion, but he tried again, pushing himself out of the clinging current, opening his eyes a tiny crack and squinting at the blinding yellow-white expanse, as he forced his legs forward; wading, thigh-deep, calf-deep, ankle-deep.

Ronon collapsed.  He lay on his back, unable to move, drained and heavy with shock, weary to his bones.  And now he felt his pain; pain in his thigh and his arm and a multitude of bruises.  But, slowly, with a heartfelt, soulfelt sense of rightness, a smile spread across his face; the smile became a grin and the grin became a laugh.  Because, beneath his battered frame there was warm, welcoming sand, and on his chilled skin was the heat of life-giving rays, and his eyes, tight shut after days of twilit, half-lit gloom, would soon open to a world bathed in sunlight.  So Ronon lay and laughed, and was filled with thankfulness for the wonders of his life.

He smiled again as he poked at his fire with a bit of driftwood, stirring up the flames, watching sparks drift into the clear night sky; the sky, filled with stars, a small crescent moon high above and a larger one, rising out over the ocean.  To be buried beneath rock, trapped in the darkness, that was no life for anyone, and certainly not for Ronon.

Teyla would think him dead, his body destroyed and washed away.  She'd have told Sheppard and McKay and maybe they'd believe it, maybe they wouldn't; there wasn't a lot they could do either way.  They'd hope, they'd grieve, because they were team, because they were family.

If his team were here, McKay would be describing s'mores and bananas stuffed with chocolate and other campfire treats, Teyla would smile gently, while studying abstract shapes in the flames, and Sheppard would be lying on his back, head resting on his hands, watching the stars and dreaming about flight.

Ronon poked the fire again, threw on a couple more sticks, and edged closer.  Driftwood burnt hot, fierce and quick, and his back felt cold while his face was near scorching.  He put on a thicker branch, picked up in the woodlands behind the beach, and lay down on the soft sand, sheltered in the hollow of grass-topped dunes.  He'd get back to them, to his team.  There were ways down into the city and he'd find them.  The vents probably weren't an option; there'd be poison gas and fumes or whatever, but he'd find caves, passages, the ways the Getters used.