Freedom
Author: Neth
Category: Angst, darkfic, McKay/Sheppard, Future
Warning: Character deaths
Author's Notes: Thanks to Lilas for beta reading this, she's brilliant.
He remembers there was a saying from when he was younger, when he still lived on Earth and thought of it as home. Live free or die. He's not quite sure where he heard it from, or maybe he had read it, but it floats around his brain endlessly. In the daylight when the horrors of the world are so clear, and in dreams when he screams as he's forced to watch the horrors of his life. Especially then. Sometimes that saying is just a line of text in front of him, floating in his head as if they were numbers. Sometimes it's a voice, belonging to those who've now gone, who left him. But it's always there, always present, and he never forgets.
Days go by and the sun rises, the sun falls, though he doesn't notice that. Doesn't see it. His people work, enslaved, tearing muscles apart so that they might carry on. He's not sure why they want that though. He certainly doesn't. The only reason he's here is to try and protect them. Some of them fear what might happen if they try and overcome this, or escape through what ever means they can. Some of them lay in wait for the most opportune moment, anger and defiance in their eyes if not their actions. It doesn't matter. None of it does, not anymore. Because this will never end, never stop, never slow down an inch or become easier in any way. He had though it might once, a lifetime ago, but he knows better now.
Yet, that phrase will not leave him, as if those he's loved punish him for living, for giving up.
He remembers when he first saw them, these creatures from Stephen King's novels. Remembers shooting a man to save him, and the guilt he'd felt for years to come. He should be envious of him, he knows now. But he can't be because to have died then would have meant he'd loose everything that came after, good as well as bad. Even if he forgets from time to time, there were once good moments. Many of them. Filled with laughter and joy, friendship, passion and love. They're echoes now, waves of things that were, long gone and twisted.
He remembers when they'd all thought victory was theirs, a bomb exploded and an illusion in place, pats on the back and not a care in the world. A bittersweet time, a friend was lost not to death but something far worse. He'd tried to save him. Tried so hard, and never could. Never got to see him again until the end, when he'd returned to help those he'd once called friends, called brothers.
He'd died though, like everyone else.
He wasn't exactly sure how long it had been since then, how long it had been since the hive ships had come down on their newly flourishing planet not to feed but to set an example. How many had been lost that day? Darts swarmed around like a hive of deadly bees, no escape from the sound of approaching death, screeching. Guns had blazed across the sky, trying to shoot them down but in the end they did nothing. The shield failed when an overload in the millenia old systems exploded and took the ZPM with it. There was no going back from then. They'd been doomed.
Few had survived from the fighting, but those locked inside, the civilians, lived on for what good it was worth. All of them rounded up, sent to the mainland and forced to work. Set an example. Do not defy us, for we are more powerful than you could ever be. Work, and you might live another day. Work, and your daughter, your son or wife, may not be fed upon. Work.
What choice did they have?
They worked in the day and plotted at night. They would overthrow these creatures, it had been done on worlds galaxies away. Help would come to them from Earth, ships, soldiers. Anything. Everything. The hope was bright, and almost a religion, but in the end it was false. The plots came to nothing but more deaths. He'd lost Teyla first, fighting to the last moment, the battle carrying on after as if the death had meant nothing. He'd cried, held in the arms of his lover who was grieving too. No ships came to their aid, though people did appear claiming to be from their former home.
The wraith, with access to Atlantis had found a way to that new feeding ground. And eaten.
Hope was almost lost with that news, but it never died completely. They were the Tau'ri, some would say. Their ancestors had freed themselves from slavery, from the Goa'ulds. Their peers had saved a galaxy from slavery. They themselves would defeat the Wraith they said, and it was a convincing idea. So they fought, again and again. Each time losing more and more people. Elizabeth, Carson, Radek. Rodney. The last had hurt the most, a part of his soul being destroyed with every tear shed for him as he died. Slowly, in pain and snarking at the world as fast as his lungs would allow.
He'd wanted to die then. But hadn't.
He'd pleaded to the skies, to any Ancients listening, to Chaya on the last world standing free. Not one came.
He'd resolved not to let any others die like that. They might be slaves now, and this world may be worse than death, but he wasn't going to let another person go before their time. Not again, no more people grieving for their friends and lovers. No more children screaming at the skies because their parents had died for a life they'd never known. He'd lead them if they wanted, but he wouldn't allow that to continue, not on his watch.
He had been so sure, so damn confident in his resolve.
He should have known it would change. The words came in his dreams first, when he could still dream of the pleasant life, of making love slowly under the moon's light. He remembered looking down at Rodney, naked beneath him, as he said those words. Live free or die. It had seemed so strange then, so out of place. And as time went on, those words spread to all other dreams, to his waking life and every thought. He couldn't escape it. He didn't know if he wanted it gone, as if this was just punishment for giving up and allowing his people to live like this.
But at least they were alive, and so he ignored it.
The children who'd once screamed at the sky grew up, stared at him in resentment for betraying their people, betraying their parents. He ignored them too. They didn't know anything but an idea, didn't know what it really meant. They had no idea that even in freedom you were not free, not completely. They didn't know that their lives were precious, to be saved and not thrown away like bad pennies. They were young still, and that strangely meant that he was old. Too old, far more than his years.
But those words followed him, even into dreams that had now turned completely dark. Not even a sighting of his old friends. More punishment, he was sure. He wouldn't give in though, life was more important. Not having to watch helplessly as your soul was shredded before you was more important.
One day though, it was different. The clouds that seemed to constantly cover the sky were thinner, and the world around him seemed to be sharper, but separate. As if he weren't a part of it anymore, a ghost almost. He spent that day looking around him, actually looking and watching instead of glancing and saying he'd seen it all. And he saw, boy did he see, something different. He didn't see life, he didn't see souls that were complete and full, and he didn't see hopelessness. What he did see was a group of people tired of living like this, but doing so because they respected him. And suddenly, that made him ill. That night he dreamed, an actual dream, for the first time in who knows how long. Those words, that phrase that had plagued him, was louder than ever. A chant. Live free or die. Live free or die. It didn't end.
In front of him were those who'd died in the fight for freedom, an endless crowd that stretched back millennia, and yet he could see the faces of each person. From their Egyptian ancestors to his modern day peers. He could even see the infamous SG-1 at the front, it appeared that Daniel Jackson hadn't escaped death this time. None of that affected him so much as the small group standing between himself and the crowd, dressed in neat and pristine Atlantian uniform. He saw them talk to him, but heard no words but that infernal chant. Live free or die. He saw Rodney approach him, a gentle touch on his face, words in his eyes but not his mouth. Live free or die.
Then he woke up.
And he knew.
This so called life was no life at all, but a mockery of it. It would continue to be so until they did what all those before him had done. The risk of losing friends, wives, husbands, parents and children was worth it, for the hope of freedom. They could not stand here any longer, taking what was dealt out so willingly. They did have a choice, as it turned out, and so he was making it. The Wraith put them here on the mainland of a planet that was once revered as an example, so an example they would make. They would fight, endlessly, they would continue untill they were all dead and would never stop trying.
Because freedom was worth it, because life as a slave was never a full one.
So he went to the people that night, and once again they planned. They prepared, got ready and prayed to any god they still believed in. Those who'd been chemists in that old life prepared bombs from the equipment and chemicals they were given for their every day work. Those who'd been soldiers and warriors trained people how to fight and defend themselves. It would work; it had to work, and even if it didn't, it would be worth it in the end.
It took time, as they had to be careful to not alert the Wraith that anything was going on. They had to prepare as much as was possible. This time he counted, 28 days. And that was it. After all these years, all it took to prepare was 28 days. He'd laugh if it wasn't so pathetic. So goddamned true.
It was time now, the waiting was over and the Wraith didn't know what had hit them. They hadn't expected the poor, weak, Atlantians to try and resist again – especially when their leader was stilled with grief. It was something they would never understand, or at least not the way humans did. It felt somehow normal, and a strange kind of relief, to rush into battle again, explosions sounding around them. Wraith guns firing both to and from the resistance members, wizzing as the blast went by you. This was right, he could feel it.
He could also feel a strange pressure hit him in the chest, and looked down at it confused. This wasn't, couldn't be, shouldn't be, but wasn't unexpected, and as he fell to the ground the only sound he made was a small sigh. Wraith weapons weren't normally lethal, and never were in and of themselves. But falling off a ledge and onto twisted metal could be, and was.
Live free or die.
And though he didn't know what was coming after this, what would eventually happen to his people, if they'd succeed or failed, he wasn't upset. He'd done what was right. And in the end, fate, god, or whoever ruled the show, if anyone did, had chosen the latter. Chosen death. He was fine with that. In the end he hadn't let them down: his people, his friends, his ancestors. He'd given them hope, and even if this battle failed, even if in the end they lost the war and remained slaves, they had fought. They had fought for freedom; they had had the will to carry on fighting until they won or until they were dead. Live free or die - it wasn't a saying from some obscure text anymore. It was their motto. It was their chant.