"Thank you. I'm sure you look vibrant."
"I look the way I smell, if that helps."
"Not really." Teyla never even tried to hide her grin. He smelled ripe, and that was putting it very politely. Then again, she probably wasn't far behind- smoke, sweat, fear, and filth.
"Listen." Ronon's hand landed on her arm. "We're in hyperspace now, so this thing can fly itself for a while. By all accounts these transporters have really nice VIP quarters. How about I take you up there so you can clean up and get some rest?"
"That's kind of you. Cleaning up sounds wonderful, but right now I'm too tired to move a muscle. I'd rather stay here."
It was a half truth. The whole truth was that she did not want to be on her own. Or rather, she did not want to be separated from this tangible tie to her past and future now that she'd found it at last-entirely by accident and after having reconciled herself to the fact that she would not see her friends again. Waking up in that laboratory and hearing Ronon's voice had been as much of a shock as the realization that she was the original after all and that-perhaps because she was the original-her journey through the Stargate had wiped out any physical trace of the past thirty-two years of her life. It hadn't given her back her sight, but at least she had the strength of youth again. She'd probably need it, too.
"I appreciate the company. You know me. Always happy to catch up with old friends."
"As I recall, the last old friend you caught up with fell down the stairs, and the one before you ran through with your sword. Should I start to worry?"
"Not unless you've sold me out recently."
She smiled a little. "I haven't. At least not as far as I'm aware."
"No," he murmured darkly. "It seems this time I managed to do it all by myself."
The remark dragged a leaden silence in its wake, as though he already regretted having let slip even this much. Teyla knew from experience that waiting him out would be pointless. She'd die of old age first. Under any other circumstances she might have respected his privacy, but the exchange of information implied two-way traffic, and so far she had been the one to do all the talking. He'd tricked her into it quite deftly, his excuse being that he had to fly the ship he'd commandeered.
Teyla herself had only the sketchiest of memories of that particular escapade and the events leading up to it. Having to rely on acoustics alone didn't help to flesh out the picture. That aside, she knew well enough that, for a while there, it had been all she could do to keep pure, stark panic at bay, and she'd missed more than she normally would have. All that had registered was the stench of ozone-laden air and smoke and blood, the ceaseless pounding of explosions as meteors hurtled into what she presumed to be a city, and the sickening, disorienting lurches of the small vessel as it ducked and danced out of the path of destruction. She recalled a dizzy sense of gratitude when the glider had touched down at last, she didn't know where; that and the fact that she'd barely been able to stand when Ronon had plucked her from the passenger seat and placed her back onto firm ground. He'd dragged her along at a dead run then, not caring whether or not she stumbled, trusting that somehow or other she'd be able to keep pace with him.
The chase had ended under a structure large enough to shield her from the hot ash and debris raining from above and singeing her skin and hair. The reprieve, in the manner of all reprieves, hadn't lasted. Shouts of challenge had warned her that either their pursuers had caught up with them again or that someone else was objecting to their presence wherever they were. She remembered an irrational flash of abandonment when Ronon left her side without so much as a word and, seconds after that, the furious clash and clatter of a swordfight, grunts, screams, and the gurgle of death. Then he'd been back by her side, to herd her up a smooth, steep incline at the same relentless pace. Eventually she'd heard a deep hum, felt a tremor, and the roar of the meteor storm had dulled. She'd surmised that he must have closed a hatch-a very large one at that-and as he guided her on through halls and up stairways to the cockpit, she understood that they were aboard a ship as big as, or possibly even bigger than, the Daedalus.
There'd been a handful brave souls who'd remained aboard when everyone else had fled, and they'd done their duty and tried to defend the ship. It had been a hopelessly uneven skirmish and a lost cause. Ronon had set upon them with a frenzy she didn't recognize in him, and he hadn't taken any prisoners. The smell of their blood still clung to him now, vying with that of the crew whose bodies lay scattered in the cockpit behind her. They hadn't stood a chance either.
Teyla knew well enough that behind the relaxed exterior, Ronon was a deeply angry man. And with good reason. The Wraith had stolen his home, his liberty, and years of his life. But something had happened to him back on that planet they'd just escaped that had stoked this anger into uncontainable rage.
It was time to find out, she decided.
"What is the Behemoth?" It seemed to her as if a million years had passed since she'd last asked this question. This time, though, she would insist on an answer.
The soft rasp of skin on leather followed by footfalls said that Ronon had risen from the pilot's chair and was headed for the rear of the cockpit. There was a hum, then an odd kind of creak and rustle, and then a symphony of smells that managed to blot out even the stench of blood and made her mouth water.
By the Ancestors, she was famished!
Attempting to figure out when she'd last eaten, Teyla's best estimate amounted to some time before she'd led Major Sheppard through the cave passage and down into the ruins of Atlantis. And that particular meal hadn't exactly been a feast. This on the other hand…
"The command crews have access to food synthesizers," Ronon observed casually. "Luckily you don't need the ATA gene to use them, or we'd be screwed. He set a plate in Teyla's lap. "Eat! But be careful. It's hot."
So it was. In both respects. Either Ronon or the food synthesizer appeared to have a distinct preference for strong spices, but as far as Teyla was concerned this had to be the single most delicious meal she'd ever eaten in her life. Though it wasn't delicious enough to make her miss the obvious. For the moment however she let it slide, too hungry to worry about prying answers from Ronon. Eventually, after having worked her way through a generous second helping, she set down the plate and got ready to ask the same question a third time.
He must have been waiting for it. Or maybe it really had taken him this long to prepare himself for whatever his answer might stir up. In any case, he preempted her. "There were no Wraith in this timeline," he said, making her wonder how or if this was going to lead around to the Behemoth. "Which was the whole point of Charybdis. Except, it turns out the Wraith kept the Ancients in check, provided a counterbalance to all those smarts and technology."
"An outside threat that occupied the Ancestors and prevented them from turning against planets and civilizations who wouldn't stand a chance against a race as advanced as they," Teyla guessed, frowning. "You may have a point there."
"I do. In this timeline the Ancients have become the Wraith. It's the ultimate tyranny." He stood again, returned to the food processor.
Teyla controlled an urge to follow and shake the story out of him, whatever it was. Clearly he had to set his own pace.
"Didn't know any of that when I woke up here," he said, handing her a glass.
Its contents had a pleasant pungency, and she took a careful sip. Some kind of wine, aged and thick and heavy. She heard him drain his own glass in one great gulp. Somebody on Atlantis had referred to this as `Dutch courage'. For the first time it occurred to her that the cause for his reticence might be shame.
"The Ancients here are paranoid. So, when they found me, they took me straight to the city," he continued. "They debriefed me. Marcon debriefed me, to be precise."