Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate: Atlantis or any places, things, characters, or ideas therein. (If I did own Atlantis, trust me, you’d know it. Ronon and Teyla would be long and happily married with half a dozen kids, a dog, and no nagging TPTB to try to break up what’s meant to be.) I am writing this story for entertainment purposes only, not monetary gain or any form of profit.

Summary: Her own identity was hiding from her, and she had no idea how to get it back. Written for jewel of athos’s birthday! Ronon/Teyla, Teyla whump, also some JS/EW and RM/JK.

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence

Spoilers: Rising pts. 1 & 2; Runner; Duet; Michael; Inferno; Return pts. 1 & 2; Echoes; Vengeance; Submersion

Pairings: Ronon/Teyla, slight John/Elizabeth and Rodney/Jennifer

Title: Forgotten

Author: fyd818

Dedication: To the fabulous jewel of athos – I hope your birthday is safe, happy, and most of all – you get good presents! ;) LOL Happy birthday, girl! -TWINhugs-

Author’s Note: This birthday fic for jewel of athos takes place in late season 3. There are, however, a few changes to the storyline. For one thing, Carson is not dead, Elizabeth has not and will not disappear/show up as someone else, and Jennifer is working as kind of a Pegasus-doctor-trainee under him. For another, the majority of events of season 4/5 will not have happened/will not happen in this story (i.e. Kanaan, Torren, the Athosians being kidnapped/rescued, etc.). That’s about it for now. Thanks for reading, everyone, and I hope you enjoy! ~fyd

Forgotten

fyd818

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-Prologue-

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I opened my eyes slowly, reluctantly, immediately squinting them again when a bright light stabbed into them. Recoiling from the glow, I squeezed my eyes shut and covered them with my hands, moaning at the general pain I felt all over my body from the crown of my head to the tip of my toes.

Rolling over onto my side, I inched my eyes open again, able to see a little more of my surroundings this time. I was lying on the cold floor, a few feet away from a webbed door – a cell, a prison.

A sudden attack of claustrophobia clawed its way into my throat, but I swallowed it back. Funny, I couldn’t remember ever having claustrophobia before.

For that matter, I couldn’t remember ever having anything before. . .

Sitting up sharply, I ignored the attack of vertigo that spun the world around me as I desperately tried to think of something, anything, familiar. All I could find was a black void where I knew my memories should be.

Panic punched me in the stomach like a fist, knocking the breath out of me. Moaning, I curled myself into a little ball and buried my face in my upraised knees, forcing myself to dig deeper into my mind. Surely I had a memory, somewhere! But the harder I tried to remember, the harder my head ached.

There had to be something, somewhere!

Pushing myself to my feet, I stumbled to the doorway of my cell and hooked my fingers through the webbing, straining my neck to peer down the hallway, which stretched seemingly endlessly in both directions. I caught a glimpse of some sort of pad right outside, but there was no way I could reach it to try to find a way to get the door to open. Not that I knew where to press to find the “open” button, anyway. . .

Leaning my head against the webbing, I felt a sense of futileness invade my stomach. I didn’t know where I was, why I was there, how to get out – and, most importantly who I was. There was nothing for me.

Footsteps.

I pressed myself tighter against the barrier between me and the hall, straining to catch a glimpse of the person coming closer. Their gait was slow, stuttering, as if walking with a pronounced limp. By the time the figure finally came into sight, I was chafing with annoyance. Was this my rescuer – did I even need to be rescued? – or my captor?

My assessment was correct. The figure who came into view – a male – did walk with a pronounced limp, his body somewhat hunched over as if he had some sort of deformity, or serious injury. He wore a black cloak hugged snuggly around his shoulders, the hood down to reveal strangely colored hair, a mix of brown and white. His skin was very pallid, almost green, and when he looked at me, I was startled to see that his eyes were yellow, with little black slits for pupils. They were the most frightening eyes I had ever seen – could remember seeing, anyway.

He paused before the door, and I took three rapid steps back. I had little doubt that he was not my rescuer, and a deeply rooted instinct inside me was screaming that I did, indeed, need a rescuer, and fast. He was my enemy, every cell in my body was screaming that it was so. I did not know how I knew this, but I did not question the knowledge.

Without waiting for me to say something (not that I could have, anyway, my tongue was frozen to the roof of my mouth in fear), he spoke to me in a matter-of-fact tone. “My name is Michael. Your name is La. You are my servant: nothing more, nothing less. You live to serve my will. Nothing else exists in your pitiful life. If you fail to serve, you will die.” With that, he turned and limped away.

Terrified and confused, I set my back against the wall and slid down it until I was sitting, my knees curled up to my chest, arms wrapped around them, face buried in my upturned hands. I was shaking, my chill as much inner as outer.

So that was the truth of it. I couldn’t remember anything because I was nothing. Nothing but a slave named La, whose only purpose was to serve my master’s whim until death arrived for me, whether from working hard or served from the hand of my master.

That was the reality of my life, and though I knew (in that confusing way that I had, where I knew things without knowing why I knew them) that fact should make me cry, I also knew I could not cry. Perhaps someday I would understand why. But until then, I would serve as was my duty, until one day, perhaps, I could build something for myself.

Until I could remember why I had to remember what had come before the blackness in my mind, my heart, and my soul.

-To Be Continued-