By Angel Ruse
A Wraith queen watches Sheppard suffer. POV fic.
He shivers in his cold, dark cell. Pretty human. So fragile. Yet who would warm such as he when his beauty shines out the stronger through his suffering? It is cold in the laboratory-prison. He draws his strong arms around himself, trying desperately to gain some sort of hold on precious warmth. His raiment is shredded, giving ample view of each and every strand of tension in those tested muscles.
'John Sheppard', he called himself. He is known to us by name. He is a warrior who plays dangerously close to the fire. It was he that first defied us, brazenly storming one of our ships to rescue a pitiable few of his kind that had been taken. It is interesting that he is here alone, with no one able to save him.
Ah, he groans. The long cut on his arm is still bleeding; it must pain him greatly. My brethren will not feed off of him for a long time, I have decreed. John Sheppard will be shown the extent of the Wraith power.
The humans think we are creatures bent only upon barbaric feedings and twisted rule over those lesser than we. They do not see our quest for knowledge. They cannot fathom our artistic side.
But this one will. For there is art in pain and death. He will come to know both. And he will be a beautiful expression, for he will fight and show us the power of his spirit, the art that is his endurance. For it is the will that moves the universe. And this one is strong.
My servants go to him. The human fights as he is forced onto his knees. Another dose, my love. Will you tell your secrets now? They force him chest-first against the wall, hold his arm and penetrate his flesh with merciless needles filled with slow death. My warrior pulls free and the syringe dangles from his skin.
When he removes it and stabs it into the neck of my nearest servant I laugh.
It is too late, however. The drug takes hold. John Sheppard falls to his knees, caving in upon himself. Sweat clings to his chill body as the blood burning begins. I hear a whispered curse, then a whimper. So beautiful. My remaining servant stands above him with the power to murder and yet Sheppard glares with fiery hatred searing through his misty-water eyes. My servant sends a crushing kick into one of the human's already marred shoulders.
Sheppard lets out a wail that splits the air with keening echoes. Red liquid lands like shattered rubies upon the cold floor. On his side, clutching the tender skin near his wound, he lays with clenched fists and a fast heaving chest. So simple an attack leaves him breathless, but not ready to give in just yet.
With a feral growl he flies up, diving into my servant. Human and Wraith crash to the floor, now locked in battle the weaker human cannot hope to win. And I see it in his stance, in his gaze as he pummels my servant. John's passion has been awakened. He enjoys the hunt and the combat. A true fighter through and through. It gives him purpose and meaning. It gives him beauty.
But the blood fire drains him all too soon. He collapses without so much as a cry, for that would require strength that he does not possess at this time. Sheppard waves his arms as my servant drags him by his tattered shirt, reinstalling him into his dark prison. For the trouble caused Sheppard is awarded a vicious kick that sends him reeling to his side. Sweat like rain makes his flesh glisten in the scant light. Blood gives his pallid countenance a touch of color.
My servant begins to interrogate my weary warrior. It is not for the need of information that he is pressed so brutally, but for the want to bend him to my will. For him to betray those he values as himself would be sweeter than were he to kneel before me in service. As steel is tempered by fire so shall it be with this one, for he will not betray them lightly.
But when he does his anguish will be my wine. His breaking will reveal the key to breaking the species. And it will herald the coming of the great feast.
My beloved remains strong. He speaks not a word against his people; tells not a single strategy towards their demise. He turns his battered body away from my servant in blatant refusal and I smile, pleased by his fortitude. Such spirit in this human! I have not seen such strength since before the Accursed ones fled our wrath in their terror.
The remainder of his black shirt is stripped from his shuddering form. My servant takes delight in holding John down. I cannot see what is taking place. My view is blocked by the imposing figure above the prisoner. Yet I perceive my human squirming. Ah, yes. John Sheppard screams. It is a voice filled with rage and suffering. One of his arms flings to the side. His fingers scrape the floor, trying to find something to hold.
Maybe he is seeking comfort. Maybe he looks for a weapon to use against his assailant. He will find neither.
When it is done my servant stands, leaving a nearly unconscious victim upon the floor. Sheppard does not move, does not speak. His breathing is marred by tormented moans; the only evidence he is awake. My servant leaves him with a dark portent of the future—suffering and death to his friends and to himself. To my satisfaction my hunted one laughs bitterly, defiantly.
And then the alarms sound, breaking us three out of our reveries. I know without being told what is happening. They have finally come to claim him. With a look my servant asks me if the time for this one's death has arrived and I shake my head. If they perish or fall to capture, I win. If they remove John Sheppard from my hold, I win. For I will take great pleasure in hunting him again.
Sleep now, beloved. And awaken to my hunger.
A/N: Having trouble with my major project, so I thought I'd throw this out for consumption.
To Karri, who has brought me into the Stargate 'verse and deserves my thanks. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own any cute Stargate tooshies. DOH.
Distribution: Go for it.