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A great deal goes on in Atlantis that Teyla knows nothing about; research and negotiations and tactical planning, all unrelated to her duties, but she keeps her ears open to anything with the word Genii behind it. Despite the increasingly complicated history between the Atlanteans and the Genii, she has never stopped feeling responsible for the wrongs they continue to do one another, and this is the second autumn she has found herself wondering how their crops have fared; whether their harvest will be a solemn or joyful time; how many nights their bonfires will burn.
Once, just five years back, they had gone on for so long that Teyla had fallen laughing onto her bedroll, and when she had awakened the next afternoon, the flames had still stretched up toward the ancestors. The air had been rich with sweet burnt nuts and leafy beds of earth; and, of course, there had been Sora, wrapping Teyla’s chilly fingers in the gift of a finely treated pelt. Gloves, Teyla had realized as her fingers slid into baby-soft casings, sewn Athosian-style with the stitching on the outside and a circle of fur at each wrist. It had been a fruitful harvest in many ways.
Her mind has been on these things for days, a premonition softly winding its way into her consciousness, so that when she walks past Elizabeth’s office and hears John say that Ladon is expecting them later that afternoon, she slows her steps and returns to Elizabeth’s door.
“If you are going to see Ladon, I would like to accompany you,” she says, surprising herself with the truth of it. She wants to go. She needs to go, because sometimes her feet long for the yield of soft grassy meadows, and the mainland, still too new and unfamiliar with its deep pine scent and salty breeze, only fills part of that need.
Elizabeth’s eyebrows go high, and then settle into an expression of satisfaction, even pleasure. “Of course. This is a diplomatic visit, as you may know. The plan is to appoint an ambassador of sorts, a Genii representative who will live in Atlantis and act as a go-between for our people.”
“Live in Atlantis?” Teyla looks to John, who shrugs and rubs his hand over the side of his head like he does when he is about to do something he doesn’t feel great about.
“It’s time to think about a military alliance with the Genii. This is as good a way as any to start.”
“And you wish to keep a close eye on them at all times.”
Elizabeth smiles, a bit sheepish around the eyes, but her reaction is honest. “We can’t afford to keep making the same mistakes. Yes, the Genii representative will be monitored very closely, a fact of which I’m sure they are fully aware. And I’m glad you’re coming along. You still know them better than anyone.”
“Perhaps.” At one time she had thought she’d known them, but then she had learned that the Genii lived in a world of cold steel and missiles and things that had nothing to do with the hearth they boasted aboveground.
“We will stay until we find someone to both sides’ satisfaction,” Elizabeth says.
Teyla smiles as though she understands, when she finds the entire thing very unlikely.
***
She packs lightly, with a change of clothing and an extra weapon in her pack. Sora’s knife, but Teyla has long since stopped thinking of it that way. After two years, it fits in her hand like a craftsman’s favored tool, and the first time she’d been forced to use it, she had frightened herself with the rush of ferocity, so unlike her, and the way her hands had trembled with unspent fury for hours afterward.
Ladon is as polite as always when he leads them down the line of men who wish to be the emissary to Atlantis. They are a row of sturdy fellows with gleaming boots and faces that give nothing away. They all wear a uniform, and there is not one who could not take on Colonel Sheppard and give him a fight.
Elizabeth seems to have the same thought as she greets the men. “I have to admit I’m surprised, Ladon,” she admits, meeting his eyes with friendly curiosity. It is a dance; Teyla knows Ladon sees only what Elizabeth wishes him to see.
“Oh?”
“I expected at least a few scientists. Surely they recognize the opportunity to learn from Dr. McKay and the rest of our staff?”
Ladon looks his men over thoughtfully and touches his fingers to his beard. “I see what you mean. But everyone had the opportunity to apply, and these are the few who wished to go.”
A dark glimmer of disbelief crosses John’s face, and Teyla turns away. She does not wish to see any more. She would rather walk on old familiar paths, and after she makes her excuses, to step outdoors is like taking off a binding garment.
There is much beauty here, and so many memories. When she raises her eyes to the hopeful pattern of the treetops against the sky, her chest swells with an angry pulse of emotion; that this world and everything in it have been yanked from beneath her. There are so few worlds left intact after the Wraith. After losing Athos, to lose Genia as well had seemed unbearably unfair.
She wanders down a grassy slope to the place where the greatest trees come together to form a wide canopy that drops leaf after fluttering leaf, like lies from Ladon’s lips. Perhaps all Genii are liars; perhaps they have lied for so long that they know no other way. Perhaps every happy moment Teyla has spent here had been nothing at all.
“Hear me out,” she hears from behind, and she freezes, her eyes falling shut, a leaf scraping her arm on its slow drift to its final resting place.
“I will listen,” she says, and when she opens her eyes, Sora is before her, full skirts and snug bodice; her old style of dress. It is not what Teyla had expected; it is too much like the girl she had once known, and she steps back from what feels twice as threatening than if Sora had wielded the knife which rests in its sheath against Teyla’s hip.
“I know why you’re here,” Sora says. The afternoon sun finds its way through the trees in scattered beams of crimson and sets Sora’s hair to glowing in the places it touches her. “I heard about the position in Atlantis. Take me to Dr. Weir?”
“You wish to be emissary?” Teyla says, numb all over, but already she can see Sora with her head bent over Elizabeth’s desk, moving through the corridors of Atlantis, on the mats with Ronon. Sora is a good choice, if she is to be trusted…which she is not.
“I can do the job!” Sora says. “If only Ladon would let me try. If he would let me to do anything but laundry these days. I’m tired of soaps and pressing, Teyla. If I can’t do what I’ve been trained to do, then I should at least be doing something worthwhile.”
And there is John’s doubt confirmed, along with Teyla’s own. She cannot entirely blame Ladon for wishing to control the situation, but his dishonesty is tiresome, and she is weary of her own anger, which seems to rise up from nowhere. Genii: she had loved the word her whole life, and now it is attached only to this tumultuous distrust.
“I will take you to Elizabeth,” she says, and as she leaves, turns her back to Sora precisely because it is what she fears.
***
Teyla enters the building first. Ladon and the hopefuls are still seated around a large table with Elizabeth, John, and Major Lorne. She does not sit with them, but stands behind Elizabeth and waits for a lull in the discussion before she addresses Ladon.
“Where are your women?” she asks. She has negotiated more than once under such a dangerous press of emotion, but she dislikes it, the strain of appearing calm when she is compelled to accuse.
“Pardon me?” Ladon makes to laugh it off, but she will not allow it.
“I remember several women in Kolya’s task force, yet here we see the same man repeated ten times over. That is hardly a choice for our people. Where is Sora, then? And your sister?”
“Dahlia is well. She cares for the sick and elderly.”
“She is a healer, then?” Teyla asks, her smile as smooth as Ladon’s.
“Of course not. I mean, she cares for them. Feeds them and changes their bandages.”
“She is a good woman.” Teyla bows her head with the concession. “And Sora?”
Ladon pauses, a small crack, but when he looks back up from the table, he is impenetrable once again. “She has her own work.”
“It must be important work,” Teyla says. “She is extensively trained, after all, and taught by Kolya himself, just as these men here have been.”
Ladon rises from his seat. “Taught too well, perhaps.”
“I do not understand.”
Sheppard and Elizabeth get to their feet at the same time. “Where’s Sora, Ladon?” Sheppard asks. His patience is gone.
“She is well,” Teyla assures him. “And she wishes to put in her own bid for the position.”
Elizabeth visibly hardens.
“Dr. Weir-“ Ladon begins, and stops abruptly when Sora enters through the front door.
Sora bypasses her commander completely. “I can fight,” she says directly to Elizabeth. “I’ve been trained in engineering. I’m a quick learner.”
“You would take her at your own risk,” Ladon says. “Why do you think we keep her from the military compound?”
“Why do you keep me from there?” she demands, a flush of red rising to her smooth cheeks. “Tell me, Ladon, why am I wasted on washing the uniforms I am no longer allowed to wear?”
At this, Elizabeth gives Ladon a long look, which Teyla recognizes even if Ladon does not. She is not certain of the cause, but according to Rodney, there are things from Earth that Elizabeth has brought with her that Teyla does not entirely understand. It has to do, she suspects, with the endless struggle between Elizabeth and Colonel Caldwell, and with the tense negotiations that had occurred when one of Carson’s doctors had become with child and ultimately returned to Earth. It is this subtlety that will surely earn Sora the job.
***
“What do you think?” Elizabeth asks from their tight circle, when they are given a moment to regroup.
“I think the choices all suck,” John whispers.
Elizabeth nods. “Teyla?”
“Sora is no less trustworthy than any other,” she finally says, and Elizabeth seems to agree, but Sheppard is peering too closely at her face, a frown pinching his brow.
“Not really the vote of confidence I’d like to hear.”
“There is no confidence with the Genii,” she says, keeping her voice as low as possible despite the tightness of her throat. “She is qualified for the position. What else would you have me say?”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Elizabeth sighs.
***
“It was worth it just to see the look on Ladon’s face,” John says during the debriefing, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed behind his head. “He was definitely pissed, but he lost all his bargaining power when he got caught in that huge lie.”
“I knew I should have gone,” Rodney says sourly from the other side of the table. “Of all the people you could have brought back, of course you chose someone who has tried to kill all of us at least once.’
“She never tried to kill me,” Ronon says.
“Not yet.”
“It was a difficult decision,” Elizabeth admits. “But she’s here now, so I expect everyone to make her feel welcome, to allow her to ask questions, and allow her limited access to the city.”
Teyla feels the pause between every comment, and their anticipation that she may have something to add, but she has nothing except a tangle of confusion in her belly. They expect her to be decisive, to offer an objective view on Sora, whose arms had held Teyla close right up until the day they had tossed her away for a fool? Perhaps it is her own fault, Teyla thinks from behind a serene mask, for her adherence to what she had been taught: dignity, fairness, wisdom. Messy displays of emotion can help no one, but because of this philosophy, they seem to assume she is unaffected by the same emotions which have Rodney in a state.
“I hope you don’t mean my labs,” Rodney says, and then argues back and forth with Elizabeth and John for a few moments, with the occasional interjection by Radek, before he crosses his arms tight against his chest and says, “How can you not see the stupidity of this arrangement?”
“We get it; you don’t like her here,” Elizabeth says shortly.
“I don’t like anything that might bring Kolya around,” Rodney says, and that’s what it comes down to, John’s face on a grainy video console, strapped to a chair and screaming. The room is abruptly quiet.
“Kolya’s got bigger worries than Sora,” John says, finally, his eyes on Rodney, who appears miserable with the situation. Teyla searches for some reassurance she might give Rodney, and with none to offer, finds his hand under the table and covers it with her palm. She had been there, too.
“I- fine,” he grumbles, red about his neck, impossibly flustered, his eyes fixed on the table before him.
“Other than that, feel free to bring me any questions or concerns,” Elizabeth says. “I think we’re done here.”
***
“So, Sora,” Ronon says at breakfast a few days later.
Teyla sips at her tea. “Is she doing well?”
“Real good on the mats. Sheppard put her with me on some advanced classes. You should’ve seen Bates’ face the first time she took him down.”
“I can imagine,” Teyla says.
“It looked like this,” John says, and twists his face into a pitiful plea for mercy, which sets Ronon to laughing, a warm, hearty sound that carries through the entire room, and even Rodney makes pleased clucking sounds while chewing his toast.
“It figures you’d like her,” Rodney says. “You both share an affinity for sharp objects, isn’t that right, Teyla?”
“Rodney,” John warns, just as Ronon says,
“She asked about you.”
Teyla wraps her fingers around her mug and lets the heat bleed into her hands. “I have been busy.”
Ronon frowns at her outright. “If you don’t want her here, why’d you bring her back?”
“It was Elizabeth’s decision; not mine.” She ducks her head, shamed by her unwillingness to admit her own part in it. She had brought Sora to the others; she had pushed Elizabeth’s hand. “If we had left her, she would have been punished.”
“Like you said, she was as good as any other,” John says.
“Or as bad as any other,” Rodney says, and even John’s subtle reproach cannot negate the truth of his concern.
***
She has heard as much, but it is still strange to find Sora just outside the same place where Teyla eats every day, and dressed in Earth clothing: a blue top much like Elizabeth’s and soft, black slacks. It is unsettling, the way she looks like any of the gateroom technicians, a data pad tucked beneath her arm, and her hair is even pinned back like some of the marines wear theirs.
“Elizabeth wanted me to fit in,” Sora says when she catches Teyla looking.We can’t afford to keep making the same mistakes, Elizabeth had said, but here they are, and Teyla’s pulse rises to the hollow of her throat as though it does not remember how easily Sora had stood in opposition to Teyla with the taste of harvest ale still on her tongue.
“You fit in quite well.” Teyla knows that there is something wrong with the way they stand in the hallway and devour one another with their eyes, Sora’s face wide open and searching, almost anxious. For a moment, Teyla thinks that Sora is going to cross the hall and dissolve the excruciating distance between them, but that would take more than a few steps—more apologies than could be held by a colossal underground bunker—and Sora is too smart to try. Instead, she holds her data pad to her chest like a shield and says, “Thank you for bringing me here. For whatever you said.”
“I said nothing,” Teyla says. “Ladon should not have deceived us.”
***
Sora’s presence in the back of the jumper makes Carson nervous; jumpy. His hands shake at the controls and he stammers through a long, agitated apology when it takes three tries to maneuver them out of the jumper bay.
“Do not worry,” Teyla says. “You have made this trip many times.”
“Aye,” he says, takes a deep breath, and finally begins to relax. “At any rate, I suppose it’s not nearly as complicated as flying a hive ship.”
“Yes. It was difficult,” she says, so careful to keep her voice steady when she wants to hush him harshly, to douse the ember of hot shame in her chest. The most aggravating thing is that there is no reason for it; it should not matter if Sora knows this about her.
“Teyla flew a hive ship? But only the Wraith can access their technology,” Sora says. “At least, that’s what Ladon said.”
Carson’s poor flying telegraphs his dismay. “Oh dear,” he says, with an apologetic glance in Teyla’s direction. The jumper veers dangerously toward the water, which he corrects too quickly, leaving Teyla’s skin prickling with adrenaline and irritation and the same sick dread as when she senses the Wraith.
“I am able to connect with Wraith technology with some effort,” she says as the mainland comes into view. “And with the Wraith themselves. It is not pleasant, but it has proven useful at times.”
Sora is silent for the rest of the trip, while Teyla looks out over the water and imagines a hundred expressions of horror, all on Sora’s lovely face.
“I’m so sorry,” Carson says when they land, but she gives him a smile. It is not his fault he cannot fathom the misgivings she carries about her gift. His own gift is a trait of the ancestors; hers is of an enemy he is only beginning to know.
“Think nothing of it,” she says, while Sora watches from the jumper hatch. It is a cold day, the leaves nearly gone, and while Teyla is warm in her winter leathers, Sora is wrapped in yards of red Genii-spun wool, a cloak with a hood that swings at her back with every step. It is foolish, but Teyla waits as Sora approaches her.
“Do you want me to include your ability with Wraith technology in my report to Ladon? He would want to know, but I didn’t…I won’t put it in my report if it’s supposed to be a secret,” she says, and she only stands so closely because of the wind, yet it is close enough to remind Teyla of why she ought to stay away. Her hair smells like flowers, dark violet night-lilies, and when she wrestles with her hood for a moment too long, Teyla reaches for the edge and helps to pull it over the whole mess of curls.
“I have no secrets,” Teyla says, and watches her treacherous fingers, fueled by an outburst of relief so sharp it hurts, drift down, down, to press a stray curl inside Sora’s hood--We can’t afford to keep making the same mistakes--
“Teyla-” Sora begins, but Teyla interrupts.
“You may tell Ladon whatever you like.” As the wind shifts, and the night-lilies are chased away by the scent of smoke and salty cured meat. At the same time, Sora shifts as well, toward Teyla; a thief in a cloak, a thief with a soft pink mouth and cold-reddened cheeks.
It is so much easier to remain angry within the walls of Atlantis.
“There is a story from Earth,” she says, and Sora’s eyes flicker to her own and remain there, glimmering like the surface of a pond at dusk. “Colonel Sheppard told me, once. About a girl in a red cloak like yours. She was traveling to see her grandmother, but a great wolf had decided to eat her.”
She does not know why she is still talking; there are many people who wish to speak with her; she senses them even now, hovering at the edges of her vision. But Sora smells the same and likely tastes the same, and how long can Teyla cling to bitterness over a uniform when she herself has worn the colors of the Atlantis expedition over and over again? With these things in mind, she allows herself to soften just the smallest bit.
“The wolf was sly; he ran ahead and arrived at the grandmother’s house before the girl. After eating the old woman, he disguised himself in her clothes.”
“And am I the girl or the wolf?” It is getting colder; Sora’s breath frosts the air between them.
“You…” You are both. “It is just a story,” she says, and is grateful when Halling shouts her name.
***
“How was everyone on the mainland?” Elizabeth asks the next day. There is no meeting scheduled, but everyone is gathered in the briefing room, informally, but with the vague sense of waiting.
“They are fine. Halling says they are prepared for winter and sent his thanks for the extra help.”
“Our pleasure,” Elizabeth says warmly.
Teyla smiles and glances at Ronon, who seems bored, and then at John, perched at the edge of the table. It seems that nothing is happening, but something. Something.
“Has something happened?”
“Not exactly,” Elizabeth says, and drops into her chair. “Sort of. It’s something Ladon told me about Sora the last time we spoke. Now, Sora doing very well. As far as I can tell, she’s got a good sense about what’s expected of her. However…”
“However, you’ve suddenly realized that she’s Genii?” Rodney mutters.
“I’m fully aware of what Sora is and what she is not,” Elizabeth says, “Including one particularly troubling thing Ladon claims she is, which is betrothed.”
With one sharp breath, Teyla curbs her reaction. They are watching her, and they often take her lead. It had been a joke, nothing but a joke, when Tyrus would tell all the young men that Sora was spoken for. “I do not understand.”
“Her father arranged it several years ago. Kolya was to train Sora with his special favor, and when Kolya’s service was over, she was to be his wife.”
“And now that Kolya’s service is up…” John says.
“He’s coming for her.”
Colonel Caldwell, dressed down to a t-shirt and fatigue pants, taps his fingers on the table. “How do we know she doesn’t want this engagement?”
“Oh, please. Have you seen Kolya?” Rodney says darkly. “No one would willingly marry that genetic experiment gone wrong.”
“I agree that Kolya is not particularly attractive,” Elizabeth says, steadfastly ignoring Rodney’s incredulous muttering, “But we have to consider the possibility that this may be her way of getting off Genia in order to join Kolya.”
“No.” Teyla says firmly. It costs her everything to remain seated, and to stifle every hint that this ambush is like to the stomach, and has left her gasping for breath around a cold hollow ache. Wouldn’t it be a shock for Elizabeth to discover that Teyla Emmagan can become incoherent with fury just like the rest of them? At her side, Ronon straightens to attention, body tensed, attuned to her shifting moods.
“Sora knows nothing of this betrothal, and if she did know, she would never condone it,” Teyla says. She must be slipping, because her voice breaks just as Rodney’s does when he is on the verge of hysteria.
“We don’t know that,” John says. “It would be just like them.”
“Sora is betrothed to no one,” she says again, this time with enough force that Elizabeth’s eyes widen and Rodney’s mouth goes shut when he has more to say about Kolya than anyone. It is gratifying that she and Ronon rise to their feet in one fluid motion, as though it were planned. “You must believe me this; she does not belong to Acastus Kolya.”
“Everybody just settle down,” John says, and gives Ronon a look that she does not understand. “Teyla, I appreciate that you don’t think Sora is into Kolya, something I would love to prove.”
“No one deserves to get women less than Kolya,” Rodney interjects with passion.
“Agreed,” John says smoothly. “Like I said, I’d love to know for a fact that this is something Kolya’s off doing on his own, but I’m going to need more than your gut feeling on this.”
“It is not a feeling,” Teyla says, just as she realizes that perhaps it is precisely that. “But it is personal,” she says, more unraveled than she has ever felt in her life. It is the Genii; it is always the Genii. A lifetime of the Wraith had not prepared her for this. “It is more personal than I wish to share.”
Ronon’s hand is warm and damp where it circles her arm, one thumb rubbing gently across her wrist. “You okay?”
“I am fine,” she sighs, and takes her seat once again, which seems to relax everyone except for Colonel Caldwell, who had not moved from his slouch in the first place, and seems more amused than anything.
“Until the day I brought you to the Genii, Sora and I were very close. Tyrus would bring her to Athos when they had crops other than tava beans to trade. During our time together, we shared many things.”
She can see the moment when Elizabeth, and a moment later, Rodney, understand where she is going. John is still waiting, listening intently, as though he wants desperately to believe her.
“Sora had no interest in Kolya, of which I am certain because she had betrothed herself to…me,” she says, the words drawn reluctantly from a place she has kept under fierce guard until now. The personal luxuries she allows herself are few, but her friendship with Sora had always been indulgent and sensuous, everything Teyla had been taught to be wasteful and vain. To admit this, even to friends, costs more than she had expected.
Elizabeth folds her hands together as she absorbs the information. “How is this possible?” she asks from behind her bundle of fingers. She has shown much interest in the Athosian way of life, and knows very well that Teyla is not meant to marry, just as Charin had not.
“Nothing was to come of it. It was foolish, but it was not a part of their deception. Some things…cannot be contrived.”
“Like what?” Rodney says just as Elizabeth says, “I see,” and then “Rodney!”
“I’m sorry.” Rodney leans across the table and looks directly at her, showing a restraint he uses with very few people when she knows he would rather throw his hands in the air and shout about such foolishness. “Teyla, I mean no disrespect. But you, you say you had this uh, this intimate relationship with Sora, and she doesn’t have the greatest track record when it comes to oh, I don’t know--everything. We need you to be really, really sure about this.”
“I have already given you my thoughts on the matter,” she says. She has given them more than enough, and she is done; tired, ready for a walk on the mainland.
“For now, let’s keep an eye out for Kolya,” Elizabeth says.
“Don’t bother,” John says. “When he wants to talk, he’ll let us know.”
***
“So, you and Sora?” Rodney asks the next night, his hand buried in the bowl of shared popcorn. They are on the sofa in the northeast spire’s common room, curled under the blanket she had brought from her own room, with John and Ronon on the floor before them.
“I do not know what you are asking.” She has an idea, but it is far more enjoyable to watch his lips press together in annoyance, and to hear his exasperated sighs. To make him ask outright. She understands why John often goes about things the hard way with Rodney; it is an odd form of entertainment, but entertaining nonetheless.
“I’m asking if the two of you…though now that I think about it, it may not be all that appropriate of a question. I still don’t really know how things work with you people,” he admits.
“Smooth, McKay,” John says, turning around halfway. “Watch the movie.”
She knows what Rodney is after. She has felt their eyes on her since yesterday, wondering what she had done to make Sora pledge herself, wondering if they had lain with one another, hands tangled beneath sun-warmed skirts; the perfume of night-lilies; ribbons loosened, knots undone; kisses on bare skin. Teyla settles into the blankets, her legs resting comfortably against Rodney’s, her thoughts sliding around a shadowed, private bend. There were many things overly forward farm girl would do when her father was away.
“I liked that it was my private affair,” she says. Her voice is pitched low for Rodney, but let the others overhear if they wish. “In Atlantis, there are many secrets; many places to hide. With my people, it is not the same. So there was that.”
Ronon tips his head back onto the sofa, silently listening. She knows that John is listening as well, even though his eyes are on the television. She shares so many stories of this galaxy, yet rarely reveals anything about herself, which she suddenly regrets. “Sora,” she says, “Is a difficult creature.”
Rodney snorts.
“Difficult but lovely,” she says. “As our friendship progressed, so did an attraction, which we eventually acted upon, in what ways we were able. There is not much to tell.”
“I think you’re leaving out a few things,” John says.
“I am leaving out many things,” she says, and leaves it at that.
***
Teyla is aware that John and Ronon have been planning a way to lure Kolya in using Sora as bait. She also knows that Rodney is furious with the entire idea, and that she would never allow it.
What she does not know is that the whole struggle is pointless, because Kolya answers to no one and moves more quickly than John can convince Elizabeth to authorize his plan. The mainland is a safe place, but Kolya has always known how to execute a mission and when she comes to, she is lain out on a wide, plush bed, her legs dangling from the edge. When she first sits up, it takes two dizzy tries.
It is a fine room, but cold, even through her winter clothing. The fireplace lies dormant, and there is no sound. Slowly, mindful of her tender head, she inspects the windows and doors, all locked. She is alone for hours, and eventually she tires of pacing and falls asleep beneath the covers, awakened much later by the sound of a key in the lock.
“Here she is.” Sora sweeps into the room in an exquisite blue gown—a wedding gown, with a tightly laced corset and yards of silk. Blue ribbons are threaded through her curls, which bounce with every step she takes. “Wake up, Teyla, so you can be the first to congratulate us.”
Teyla rolls from the bed and takes a defensive stance, as if it would do any good when she has nowhere to go, and Kolya blocks the entire doorway. His uniform is stiff and lined with medals, with a row of symmetrical buttons down the front. He appears as happy as Teyla has ever seen him, and who can blame him, with Sora dancing tiny steps around him in blue satin slippers? Something twists painfully in Teyla’s chest. Foolishness; Charin had been right to forbid such foolishness, because if Teyla did not want Sora’s pink sullen mouth for her own, then she would not care so much that Kolya was about to possess it.
“Sora,” she says in the same steady tone as always, abruptly tired of being so calm, but what is the good in becoming frantic? It will not change the markings which crawl from cheek to brow, a pair of twined lines on Sora’s face which will last at least a week. Teyla has been to many Genii weddings, and the markings have always fascinated her, the mysterious twisting patterns and the happy faces beneath them.
“I have known for many years that I would someday become Commander Kolya’s wife,” Sora says as she approaches, the light gleaming on her tight bodice. “And the day has finally come.”
“You will regret it,” Teyla says. She has to look away, but snaps her head back toward Sora when she hears Sora laugh lightly and say,
“The only thing I will regret is becoming a widow so soon.”
Before Teyla can react, Sora has spun around to fling a sizable knife toward Kolya, where it lodges in his chest and sends him gasping to the floor. He has hardly hit the ground when two armed guards charge through the doorway, their weapons steady on the two women as they drag Kolya out of the room.
“He was supposed to die,” Sora says, staring toward the locked door, frozen with disbelief. “I have perfect aim; he should be dead.”
When Teyla replays the event in her mind, she agrees. “It was a good throw,” she says, still trying to process what had just occurred. Her body will not calm its trembling, still on guard, tense and ready to fight.
“And he’s alive, damn it, I can’t…I won’t.”
“He will be very angry if he lives,” Teyla says. The danger has passed for the moment, which she cannot seem to convince her body. She tries again to relax, but the room is so cold; her muscles ache from trembling, or perhaps it is what Carson would call shock. Sora has married Kolya, and there is a large, tender lump at the back of Teyla’s head.
“I don’t care. I hope he bleeds and bleeds. He had this dress made four years ago. For four years I’ve known that this dress has been hanging somewhere, but I never thought I’d actually wear it.” She tugs angrily at a hair ribbon, and throws it onto the bed. “I actually thought that if I served well enough, he’d let me off.”
The markings on Sora’s face are that of every Genii bride Teyla has ever known; deep amber, almost black, and by the time they fade she is to be settled into her wifely duties. It is enough to wring a dry laugh from Teyla’s throat: for those wifely duties, Sora is off to a terrible start.
Miserably, Sora plops into an armchair and curls her feet beneath her skirts, beginning to shiver. “Why haven’t you built a fire?” she asks, and Teyla hears her but she does not know why it had not occurred to her to open the chest of logs and burn them for warmth. “We’re underground, you know. That’s why it’s so cold,” Sora says, but everything seems muted and out of proportion. Time pours into a long stretch, and after a few moments of watching Sora’s blue silks move to and fro, suddenly Sora is before her, backlit by orange flame.
“Teyla,” she says sharply, her hands so hot on Teyla’s face, like the time she had knocked over a tray of candles, liquid puddles of heat. “Don’t you dare, Teyla Emmagan,” Sora orders, but Teyla is frozen, and cannot stop her slow melting slide.
***
She wakes to warmth. Not her furs, but the blankets are soft and warm against her arms, and a pillow beneath her throbbing head. At least the room has stopped its spinning, and when she sits up, the room temperature is comfortable on her bare shoulders.
“You shouldn’t sit up yet. Or- are you feeling better? It’s been hours.” Sora emerges from the bathroom with a cup of water and brings it to Teyla, who drinks it down and then tracks the girl’s slippered feet as she carries the empty cup to a small table. The whole situation is absurd; entirely surreal, and Sora in her petticoats, white and plain. “I can’t fight in that thing,” Sora says with a glare in the direction of the dress, draped over the armchair. “I couldn’t even breathe in it.”
“Are you expecting to fight?” Teyla asks. She is glad that one of them will be able, though she is already feeling steadier; stronger.
“If Kolya comes back…” Sora says, with a hard look at the door.
“We will deal with Kolya,” Teyla says. “If he comes back.”
***
Of course he comes back. He is helped into the room by two guards and flanked by two others, and with their help he makes it to the chair where Sora’s dress is piled. One of the guards kicks the dress aside and helps ease Kolya into a sitting position. Another places a P90—Teyla’s—into Kolya’s arms.
“Thank you,” Kolya says, and maneuvers the weapon to rest on his knees, pointed straight at Teyla. “Now leave.”
“But Commander,” the second guard protests. “You can’t-“
“I said go,” Kolya says, his face like a woodcut Teyla had once seen of some ancestors, somehow containing generations of solemn condemnation.
They go, but insist on staying right outside the door, which greatly reduces their chances of escape. Sora stands straight-backed next to the bed, and Teyla admires that even Acastus Kolya cannot cow Sora, but there are times when one must bend in order to survive. The door closes, and then it is the three of them.
“I just had the most interesting talk with Elizabeth Weir,” Kolya says. His large, blunt fingers move restlessly over the P90, grazing so close to the trigger that Teyla’s breath catches in her throat. “She seems to think we’re in negotiations of some sort. That woman does love to negotiate, doesn’t she? But the thing is, she’s not nearly as willing to give up my bride as I’d expected. And do you know why?”
While he waits, Teyla gropes around for a sufficient answer. “Sora has done well with her assigned tasks,” she says.
“I’m sure she has, but Dr. Weir mentioned something else. Something about a betrothal?”
Teyla goes cold, even beneath the covers. “Commander Kolya, I am certain Elizabeth merely wishes to negotiate for our safe return, and that she meant no harm.”
“What are you talking about?” Sora says.
When Kolya shifts in his chair, Teyla hears his soft hiss of pain. “Dr. Weir seemed to think our betrothal was invalid because you had already pledged yourself to someone else.”
Sora looks at Teyla, her eyes bright with fear. “What did you say?” she asks, her posture showing the first sign of retreat.
Teyla does not know how to answer the question, not with Kolya sitting there on his wedding night, wounded and so dangerous.
“Of course it’s a ridiculous story,” Kolya says, and the lilt of his voice, some subtle change in his posture, gives Teyla the sudden sinking feeling that he has engaged in some game and they are only now being apprised of the rules. “Dr. Weir seems to think that you would not honor your father’s promise because you had already promised yourself to Teyla.”
A hot wash of mortification rolls through Teyla, so strong she is dizzy with it for a moment. It had been her duty to trade with the Genii, to keep strong an alliance which would benefit them both. She had overstepped her bounds each time she had walked alone with Sora and let the conversation turn overly personal. She had had no right, and now she realizes that Sora had not had the right, either.
“Don’t look so ill, Sora,” Kolya says, a hint of a smile on his lips. “It’s not the end of the world. As I was saying, I told Elizabeth that she was quite mistaken, but now that I’ve been stabbed by my bride, I’ve begun to rethink matters. After all, you wouldn’t have staged such a careless attack without good reason, would you?”
“No,” Sora hedges, looking as unsure as Teyla feels. Kolya’s games can be cruel; she cannot stop thinking of John, bound and screaming.
“And if you had indeed pledged yourself to Teyla, that might be something for me to consider. It might mean that you had tried to kill me out of some misguided sense of loyalty, and not some reason that I might find…shall we say, unforgivable?”
This time, Sora does not reply.
“So here is the question,” Kolya says, fondling the P90 slowly, so slow Teyla can hardly stand it. “Had you betrothed yourself to Teyla, and if so, how can I possibly believe you?”
“You either believe it or you don’t,” Sora says hotly. “I have no proof.”
“Don’t you?” Kolya asks slyly, and his words hit Teyla like a wall. “You’re one of our brightest, Sora; I know you can come up with something if you put your mind to it.”
***
“What you are asking is not acceptable among my people,” Teyla says, her one attempt to escape the inevitable.
“Noted. However, you’re in no position to judge what is acceptable and what is not,” he replies. “You’ve broken not only your own customs, but has it escaped your attention that you are lying in my marriage bed?” His last few words are not so much spoken as spat, and his hand tightens on the barrel.
“What good would it do?” Sora says. She cannot be considering his offer.
“If I can believe what I see, I may open negotiations with Dr. Weir for Teyla’s safe return. And if I feel like I’ve been fed a story…well, I’m not going to be very happy.”
“Fine,” Sora says haughtily, her chin high. “I accept.”
***
It is a relief that Sora is too angry to be nervous. She strips her petticoats off in a few quick movements and kicks them away, and then climbs onto the bed. When Teyla first sees the pale curves of Sora’s bare body, she glances over at Kolya, convinced that he will change his mind and claim her for his own. But he is stone, and she is glad for it.
It is strange to be here with this fierce version of Sora, the same Sora that had tried to avenge her father’s death, and who had worn a uniform in the name of her people. Teyla had expected that if she were ever in this position, it would be with the lively, agreeable version of the girl, but her blood is already stirring with interest because she has had nearly three years to dwell on Sora’s strength and agility, no matter how wrongly they had been used.
She is surprised when Kolya allows Sora to slide her legs beneath the covers, creating a small pocket of privacy for them to exchange a look that contains more than they have spoken aloud to one another since Sora came to Atlantis. It is obvious that Sora is going to kiss her first; she comes in slowly—probably more slowly than Kolya would like—with her eyes on Teyla’s mouth.
They have done this. They have done this behind countless trees and sheds, but it has been so long, and when Sora’s mouth closes around Teyla’s lower lip, it is as though all the years and secrets and even the violence have accumulated and fermented until just the press of Sora’s teeth makes Teyla clench with arousal, shot through with what had at one time been a sweet longing and is now an urgency that she feels as a heaviness low in her belly.
“Let me,” Sora says against her mouth, just as her fingers trace the side of Teyla’s breast through her top, and it raises a shiver when she strokes the bottom curve as though coaxing Teyla into this game, completely unnecessary. They have done this, as well. Teyla knows that Sora’s breast fits in the cup of her hand and that the curve of her neck is ripe for kissing, night-lilies and fresh earth and always the scent of autumn hovering just out of reach. She marvels at Sora’s ability to remain methodical when Teyla herself feels so out of control, but when she removes Teyla’s top, Sora’s kisses turn slow and panting, and then stop altogether.
They have not done this.
Sora lifts up, her gaze heavy-lidded when she looks first at Teyla and then down further, at the dark nipples which want to be touched so badly they ache, and still she does nothing. “Your pants,” Sora says instead, her hand at the fastening, and Teyla sheds them quickly, not caring that they are lost beneath the covers. Sora’s hair falls forward as she moves, long tendrils that drag across Teyla’s breasts, teasing scraps of sensation that make it impossible to wait further. One hand at Sora’s cheek to guide her mouth in for another kiss, Teyla touches her own nipple with the other—she is used to touching herself, by now—while Sora slowly melts into her, their legs entwined so that Teyla’s thigh is pressed between Sora’s legs.
They were never supposed to have this. In a way, Kolya is doing her a great, terrible favor, because years ago Teyla may have been foolish, but now she is in possession of resolve which cannot be compromised, and no matter how long Sora remained in Atlantis, Teyla would never have threaded her fingers into her tangled curls and kissed her this way, their tongues pushing wetly against each other, and all the while, Sora’s touch at her hip, stroking light patterns that occasionally venture up to the swell of Teyla’s bare breast.
From his seat, Kolya makes an impatient sound. He sounds strange; Teyla does not dare look; she does not want to see what he thinks of them.
“He wants more,” Sora whispers between kisses, but there is a slick of heat at the place where her thighs are clamped around Teyla’s, as though it is she who wants more.
“Then give him more,” Teyla replies, and rubs up deliberately with her thigh, then back and forth, spreading the wet, soft folds as she watches Sora’s reaction, the way she fights the pleasure even as she gives into it, her face flush beneath the carefully painted patterns and her mouth red, softened by their kisses.
“Oh- yes, like that,” Sora pants, burying her face in Teyla’s neck, moving against Teyla in messy, jerky tilts of her hips, over and over, until Teyla can feel the build of Sora’s climax as if it were her own. Between her own legs she feels swollen tight and at the same time wide open, as though she could swallow the universe with her steady throbbing need to be touched, and when Sora finally reaches down and feels around—curious fingers in a few tingling slides across her wet clit—Teyla is pulsing around her fingers by the time she pushes inside.
Her excitement seems to fuel Sora’s own, and in the last few rolling waves, the pleasure swells once more with Sora’s mouth on her breast, finally, teeth and suction at her nipples, sharp and agitating like Sora herself.
She is trembling again, this time not from cold, and Sora is the same, shaking against her and moving up to kiss her deeply, no longer taking care but just taking, as though this is meant for them, as natural as breathing. Caught up in the idea that maybe it is, or it could be, Teyla rolls Sora over and mouths her way down Sora’s belly. Their pocket of privacy is gone, but they do not care. She will not leave without this one thing, and she has just reached the juncture of Sora’s thighs when the door is blown open and Ronon charges through with a weapon that he fires twice. Teyla jumps to a kneeling position while Sora makes a desperate sound, and collapses back onto her pillow before Kolya’s body even hits the floor.
Ronon turns toward the women, his eyes traveling dispassionately over their bodies before he nods at the door. “You should probably get dressed,” he says. “The others are on their way in.”
***
“I just wish you’d saved Kolya for me,” Sheppard says for the tenth time. The mood at the debriefing is jubilant—the hostages have been returned, and Kolya is dead—and despite her sore head and utter disbelief over what she had done—while Kolya had watched; what would the others think of that?—Teyla is relieved enough that the cheer is contagious.
“I can tell you about it again if you want,” Ronon offers. Each time he tells the story, their spirits rise even more, and Elizabeth has brought out a bottle of champagne to toast their most successful rescue mission to date.
“No, I want to hear about how Sora turned around and stabbed Kolya right after she married him,” Rodney says. Apparently, he is over whatever disapproval he had felt toward Sora’s facility with knives.
“If he was surprised, then he ought to have had two knives in his chest,” Sora says. “And three for tying me into that corset.”
Elizabeth raises her glass with a laugh, and the others do the same.
Teyla sips at her drink and meets Sora’s eyes, wide and startled, over the rim of her glass. What big eyes you have, she thinks, a fragment from John’s story, but she knows the truth. Sora is not the wolf at all; she is a girl in a red cape with a dagger beneath the sleeve, a warrior. She is like Teyla; she is Teyla; she is Teyla’s.
end. |