Disclaimer: I don't own "Stargate: Atlantis" and don't claim to. (If I did, Teyla and Ronon would be happily married with half-a-dozen kids by now.) I am making no monetary gain from this, it is meant for entertainment purposes only.
Summary: Sequel to "Soul Mates." Their battle with the Wraith could not compare to this. Whoever said happily ever after was for good? AU RononTeyla
Warnings: Violence, character death
Author's note: When I finished Soul Mates, I promised myself it would be a one-go story. That the readers would decide what happened to Ronon and Teyla after her vision in the epilogue. However, my stubborn mind refused to cooperate with me, and now here I am, writing a sequel. To give you an idea of a timeline, this fic starts out about a year after Soul Mates ended. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!
Red streaks colored the backs of his eyelids, a bright reminder of something he couldn't quite remember. His body registered several points of pain as the screams of the dying and wails for the lost filled his ears. Impossible, he thought fuzzily. This can't be happening.
In the distance, he heard the sounds of official voices – military or police. Their response timing was impeccable – the only way they could have done better was to stop the trouble before it happened.
Ronon Dex opened his eyes to a sky choked with thick grey smoke. For a detached moment, he wondered where the fire was. He started to move his head to look around, but the crunching sound of broken glass beneath him made him freeze.
A familiar voice called from his left. "Over here – we need a stretcher!"
"Sheppard." His voice was thick – it was hard to breathe with all the smoke. Ignoring the glass this time, he turned his head to see his friend.
"Hang in there, buddy." John's expression was grim, his eyes tight. "We'll get you patched up in no time."
"What happened?" There were so many loose memories rattling around in his head, puzzle pieces he didn't know how to fit together.
A carefully shuttered look met his unsteady eyes. Sheppard shook his head. "Now isn't the time," he said. "We're investigating."
"It's Atlantis," Ronon protested single-mindedly. "How—?" Something else was frantically trying to shove its way into his memory, something important. He couldn't think straight, his mind was so fuzzy. If only he could get rid of the fog, then he could remember. . .
"I don't know. Don't push it, just stay still. There's a medical team coming over right now – they'll stitch you up. Then we'll talk about it." Sheppard's eyes stayed firmly locked on his, as if he were trying to keep from looking anywhere else. Or like he was trying to keep Ronon from looking elsewhere. . .
Stubbornly, he tore his gaze from his friend's to look. Small fires burned spasmodically in the immediate area, but it seemed they were under control. The ground glittered like a bed of jewels from a layer of broken glass. All around lay the unsalvageable remains of a majority of the carts – and their wares – that had once lined mainland Atlantis's Market Street. Mingled with the ruins lay bodies – a nauseating number, most of whom Ronon was sure weren't still alive.
He turned his head still further, attempting to see whatever Sheppard was keeping him from seeing. They were both soldiers, and his friend knew that. This wasn't the first time Ronon had seen destruction. . .
. . .But it was the first time it had affected him like this.
Less than a foot away rested a familiar, crumpled form, wearing an outfit he'd watched her put on just that morning. Long red-gold hair feathered over the ground, hiding her face, a broken hair clip still tangled in the strands. He'd gotten her that clip. . . And, peering from beneath her collar, the other half of the necklace he wore.
"Teyla!" Ronon moved, trying to push himself up, at the same time reaching out for her.
Sheppard gently but inexorably held him down. "Don't," he pleaded. "Don't. She's—" He shook his head.
Dizziness struck him. He wanted to blink, to see if that would help, but he couldn't make his eyelids move. He couldn't stop looking at her. Ignoring his friend's warning, Ronon reached out to grasp her hand, his thumb moving to the pulse point on her bloodied wrist.
"Ronon—" Sheppard began.
"No," he said. He wasn't talking to John – he wasn't talking to anyone. The grief welled up in him, but he couldn't voice them. His mouth refused to work. His eyes felt too dry; he blinked, and then a river of tears fell down his face. Though his mind wouldn't accept what he saw, what he felt, everything else was telling him the truth was irrefutable.
His wife was gone. How is this our happily-ever-after?
-To Be Continued-