Bibula Harena

The Garaldi have cleaned the arena since he was last here, the bloodied ground raked and swept, the earth replaced and packed down again, sprinkled with fresh sand ready for fresh blood.

John intends to spill a lot of it today.

It's not particularly hot, the clouds giving some respite from the blinding sunshine of the past week. John half-shivers in the coolness, his body now too used to the heat for him to be comfortable. There's a breeze swirling round, lifting tiny whirlwinds of sand where the arena floor meets the wooden stands, and John notices it absently, wondering if there's any way he can use it to his advantage. Out here, he'll take anything he can get, and all the fighters know that a downed opponent can throw sand deceptively quickly.

Like many of the others, John prefers to go barefoot, taking the chance of getting his toes stepped on, rather than endure the blisters that come from getting sand in open sandals. Maybe if he manages to beat this guy, he'll win enough for a pair of proper shoes. Ones without holes, that will actually help rather than hinder, giving at least some relief from the heat rising off the ground.

He watches his opponent, assessing him as the bigger man prowls round the arena, sneering at John and playing to the crowd. He's big, heavy, and John's seen him use his weight advantage to literally crush smaller opponents back at the training ground. John will need to stay out of the reach of those long arms, wait for an opening, try to provoke a mistake. He flexes his fingers round the grip of his knife, adjusts the hold on his stick, digs his toes into the ground, feeling the breeze stirring the hairs on the back of his neck.

Eventually, the big man decides that he's had enough of enjoying the crowd's hoots and yells, and he turns his attention to John. It's probably supposed to be unnerving, the steady glare and the predatory grin, but compared to the Wraith John's faced down, hell, even compared to Ronon, this guy looks like what he is: a big, dumb idiot who's about to die.

*******

Rodney can hear the shouting from the arena, the yelling and screaming that means some poor sap is going to get it. If he climbs onto the bed, braces one hand against the wall, stands right up on his toes and leans perilously far to the right, he can just about see the tops of the stands. It's really not worth the effort, and one undignified fall was enough to convince him of that.

He goes back to the paper in front of him, or at least what passes for paper around here, lumpy and fragile and really, really hard to write on. Especially in pencil. They don't let him have pens any more, not after he took one apart to pick the lock and got halfway to the barracks before anyone noticed he was gone. The reward was ten days solitary, reduced rations and nothing to write on for a month. But it was worth it, if only to let these backward idiots know who they were dealing with. They wouldn't take him for granted again, oh no.

The pencil goes right through this time and he sighs. He can't write on the walls, because the dark brick swallows up the marks, and trying to write like this is like wading through sand. Giving in, Rodney leans back on his bunk and closes his eyes. He'll just have to do it in his head instead, and at least with his eyes closed he can't see the cell around him, the too-close walls, the cold stone floor and the thick, iron bars. It's probably better this way.

*******

It's not the arena that's the worst part. Okay, that's a lie, because the prospect of imminent death is always going to be the worst part, but at least John's in control of it, more or less. The worst part is the endless days of waiting, the practicing, the mock-fights, as though hands aren't as deadly as steel or iron. They're not supposed to kill each other in training, although it happens. John saw a throw go wrong as the falling man twisted at the wrong moment, heard the crunching of bone and looked into the glassy stare of another dead body. He's almost getting used to that.

For himself, he tries not to practice too much, tries not to give himself away. He does a lot of running, around the barracks, again and again. When he spars, he holds back, losing more than he wins, watching the others desperately trying to spot weaknesses and showing them all the openings that will be closed if they ever meet in the arena. It's not like anyone ever comes back to tell the tale, to tell the men around him that everything they've learned about him is going to mean precisely nothing if they ever have to fight for real. The guards, of course, don't say anything. Even the trainers don't say anything, watching silently as they fight, handing out fake weapons and collecting them all in at the end. They always count too carefully for John to take anything, not that a wooden knife or pencil thin spear would get him very far anyway. He hasn't picked up any of the mock-weapons in a long time, finding them more annoying than useful.

So he runs, more easily since his last victory won him some real shoes, padded with something soft and providing at least some protection for the soles of his feet. It's easier and harder than running on Atlantis. The shoes don't give anywhere near the amount of support that his sneakers would, but then the ground around the compound is softer, overgrown with grass and moss. He has to adjust the padding a few times to stop blisters, but it's still worth it.

He's allowed to run the perimeter, behind the barracks buildings and back to the practice ground. There are guards all around the palisade and more on the gates, so it's not like he can go anywhere. Not that it's stopped him from trying. He killed four guards before one of them got a spear to his throat, and it bumped him back down to the bottom of the rankings, having to fight his way back up to earn his pants, his shirt, his knife. This is sacred to the Garaldi, the continual supply of blood that feeds the arena and their gods. One of the other fighters said that the spectators take the sodden earth/sand mixture home, believing it will help their crops to grow. Maybe it does.

The weather's still relatively cool, and John's only a little warm when he jogs back to the training ground, watching two evenly matched, blond-haired men grapple with each other. He watches the way they wrestle, the grips and holds and throws that they use, wincing when one of them pulls the other's hair and making a note of the dirty trick. He may have to watch out for this one.

Carefully, he walks past them, stretching his arms and neck and heading for the water barrel. There's always food and water for the fighters; good stuff, too. The Garaldi offer it to them, part of the whole ingrained sacrifice thing they've got going on. They sacrifice the best of their produce to the fighters, then sacrifice the best of their fighters in the arena. They probably think of it as cyclical or reciprocal or some crap like that. John's not one to turn down the food, though. Not if he wants to stay alive.

He wonders what they're feeding Rodney.

*******

When you get right down to it, food's food, and apart from an ever-present fear that something in the thin stew is going to send him into anaphylactic shock, it's not too bad. Rodney's eaten worse on the various worlds they've traded with over the years, and he and Sheppard have a silent challenge about downing the weirdest of it. He who flinches, loses.

By comparison, this stuff is pretty good, although the pattern isn't very subtle. He gets stew for two days before a questioning, stew and the half-decent crusty bread that's fairly good on the first day and only edible when soaked in stew on the day after that. The first time he made the link, connected the better food with the coming interrogation, he'd spat out the morsel he'd been chewing and pushed the bowl aside. Now, he eats every last drop, saving the truly solid bread for when he gets back. Dipped in the measly porridge rations that are his standard daily fare, it helps fill him up again. He has no way of knowing how long the interrogation will last and they won't feed him until it's over.

Rodney sucks up the last of the juice off the spoon, tips the bowl to make sure he hasn't missed anything, savoring as much as he can, then goes and puts the empty bowl by the bars of the cell. His pants are even looser now, and he wonders if he should start asking for a belt again. But since he used the last one to rig a noose/tripwire combination that let him get all the way to the main hall before they could cut the guard down and come after him, they probably won't give him one.

Closing his eyes, he leans his head against the wall and tries not to let the hysteria overwhelm him. Because he thinks if he gets much thinner, he's going to be able to slip through the bars of his cell and walk right out of here. And then they'll be sorry.

He'll make sure that they're sorry.

*******

They don't tell the fighters who they're up against in advance. It stops them forming attachments, alliances, because who knows when they might be forced to kill each other. John's killed eight men with higher ranks than him, all self-defense; when the other guy's coming at you with a sword, a yell and eyes full of murder, it's not exactly the time to start talking about bonding over their shared experience. He's killed four men with lower ranks than him, also all self-defense, because they were desperate and he was all that stood between them and the next rank, the next privilege, the next breath. The two men of equal rank, he didn't kill, nor four more of lower rank and one poor wretch who'd barely seemed to know which way was up. Every single time, the guards stepped in when he refused to finish it, when he'd crippled or maimed or just plain beaten the other guy.

That had been enough for him, but not for the Garaldi, who demand blood and blood alone, and they'd had to knock him out before he'd let them kill the weakest of his opponents. It had been early in his time here, the first time he'd beaten rather than killed, before he'd learned that only one man could leave the arena alive, and that the Garaldi take no pleasure in torture, only in the spilling of blood. Even so, he'd been strong enough, good enough that he'd downed four guards trying to save the wretched man, only succumbing when they'd had his arms pinned, and one of them had decided he'd had enough. John had woken up on his pallet hours later, head ringing and sick to his stomach, knowing that whatever he did, it was never going to be enough. One of them was always going to die. Still, there are times when he just can't bring himself to do it, and has to turn away before the guards deliver their killing blow. It might make him a coward, but it keeps him sane.

Despite other offers and the privileges of rank, he still uses his own knife to fight with, balancing it with a fighting stick, long and solid, giving him the reach he needs against the spear fighters. He's not too good with a longsword, but the knife is an old friend, its familiar weight a connection to the past he refuses to give up. The Garaldi clean it carefully for him, and they've rebound the handle with good cloth that absorbs sweat and blood without losing grip. They must replace that every time, because after his last bout, when he'd squeezed the handle, the knife had dripped blood, bleeding onto the sand at his feet.

It's clean again today, though, and he double checks the wrapping before tucking it in its sheath and buckling on his belt. Across the chamber, he can see his opponent, one of the blond men he saw wrestling two days ago. He's unarmed, but is wrapping leather supports around his hands and wrists, and John thinks he sees the glint of metal in the leather. Not so unarmed, then. John hefts his stick, reminding himself of its weight and reach, swinging it experimentally, deciding to leave the knife where it is for now. It's not that he's above fighting dirty, or that he thinks the knife will give him an unfair advantage; it's that he wants to keep the other guy as far away as possible for as long as possible, and his knife's not going to be much use until they're in close. He can draw pretty quickly, faster than the other guys realizes, hopefully.

When the other man has finished winding the leather, he gives the guards a nod, and John does the same. The gates to the arena are dragged open and they walk out together, blinking in the sunlight and nearly deafened by the crowds. While the blond man lifts his hands in salute, John walks to the other side of the fighting ground, turning and waiting for his opponent to stop grandstanding, and trying not to get his hopes up. He's got the tactical advantage now, his back to the sun and his eyes have had time to adjust. It's too early to call the fight won -- he's seen the other man spar and knows he's quick and vicious -- but it's as good a start as he can hope for.

He swings the stick lightly again, clearing his mind and blocking out the screaming crowd. It used to unsettle him, the constant baying for blood. Now, it's part of the landscape, as familiar as the wooden stands and wide arena floor. Beyond the arena is the town, the prison, the Stargate. Rodney's out there, John hopes, probably still locked up, and Atlantis is just a little further and a few light years away. He dreams about it sometimes, but he's learned to keep it to dreams. Right now, he can't afford to get too distracted. This is all there is, the stick in his hand, the knife in his belt, the crowd roaring around him, and the man he has to kill.

*******

Halfway through -- he hopes it's halfway through -- the questioning, Rodney starts to forget about the world beyond the interrogation room. From his cell, he can hear things, the streets below the prison, the arena. But in here, there is nothing, just the table and chairs and the examiner, asking him question after question until he's too tired, too hungry and thirsty to care about anything except making it stop.

"How does the shield work?" the examiner asks.

"What shield?"

"On your home planet's portal. How does it work?"

He doesn't remember telling them about the shield, but part of him is pleased that the word Atlantis hasn't been mentioned. That probably means he hasn't given too much away. Yet.

His mind is wandering, and he jumps when the examiner slams his hand onto the table.

"Tell me about the shield," he says again, and Rodney shakes his head.

"You've got the most secure Stargate I've ever seen," he says, aware that his mouth is running away with his brain but unable to stop himself. "It's in a cave with a solid rock wall four meters away, so anything coming through at speed, like, say, a Wraith dart, would get smashed to pieces almost before it finished materializing. And even if the Wraith came on foot, there's only one way out of the cave so you could pick them off the moment they stuck their heads out. Of course, if they come in ships you're totally screwed, but then, who isn't?"

The examiner just looks at him, as though he can't understand what Rodney's saying. "What do you use to power the shield?" he asks, apparently thinking that changing direction will get him the answers he wants.

Rodney shakes his head. Even if he tells them, the Garaldi have no way of understanding, no terms of reference that will let them understand words like electricity and conducting crystals and energy barrier. This is so totally pointless. He can't tell them anything they don't already know about the Wraith, and even if they manage to somehow get the name 'Atlantis' out of him, there's no way he's giving them the 'gate address. And even if he does, the first thing Sheppard did when he realized they were going to be captured was destroy both their IDCs, so it's not like they'd get past the shield anyway.

He resists the urge to tell the examiner all this, even though his head's spinning and his hands are shaking and it's a long, long time since they gave him any of the sweet drink that stops him passing out in the middle of an interrogation but does nothing to help his hunger. If he gives any kind of answer, no matter how small, he's allowed to go back to his cell, allowed to sleep and eat and sleep again. But he won't answer the questions this time, won't give the examiner the satisfaction, and so he forgets about the cell, about the prison he's in, the world he's trapped on, the barracks and the arena, Sheppard and Atlantis. He puts them aside, focusing instead on the table in front of him, looking for geometric shapes in the wood, tracing equations in his head and charting them on the x- and y-axes formed by two perpendicular lines.

"Prisoner!" The examiner is shouting at him, but when he looks up, Rodney's mind is still following the smooth curve of the equation, and he just blinks distantly as the man calls for the guards to take him back to his cell. They're not gentle as they drag him down the corridor and Rodney's only halfway there before he finally, mercifully passes out.

*******

John's been planning this for months. This isn't the kind of place you can just walk out of, not if you don't want a spear in the belly or throat, so he broke it down, took it in stages. The palisade around the barracks is wooden, held together with nails and ropes, and constantly in need of repair. He got the first length of rope weeks ago, long and strong and coiled tightly, just lying on the top of a cart while the workmen were up on the walkway. It's been lying hidden under a heap of earth and moss ever since, and John checks it every time he does his perimeter run. He also checks the second coil, shorter and thinner, lying five meters away from the first, where it had fallen during repairs just last week, and no one had bothered to retrieve it.

It's not much, but it's all he needs, or nearly all. The last piece of his puzzle is getting bumped up high enough in the rankings to merit his own cell. It's just a bare wooden room with a mattress on the floor, and a lock on the door, but it's better than the main dormitory and, best of all, it has a window.

They probably don't think he can get to it, as the sill is nine feet above the ground, and it's not much more than a small, square hole with bars across it. Most of the fighters would be too broad-shouldered to get through, and the Garaldi probably don't think anyone would try.

They're wrong.

As soon as John hears the patrolling guard pass by outside, he's on his feet, bending his knees and taking a deep breath before jumping up and getting his fingers on the edge of the sill. His bare toes -- no shoes for this one, he needs the grip more than the protection -- find the tiny gaps in the brickwork, and really, it's not much harder than rock-climbing once he gets going.

Still, he's breathing hard by the time he hauls himself onto the sill, twisting his body so that he can slither between the bars. It's risky, going headfirst like this, but he wants to be able to see what's coming. As his hips slide free, he takes a none-too-graceful dive towards the ground, tucking and rolling and getting away with just a slightly jarred shoulder. Double checking for guards, he begins the breathless dash towards the palisade, tucking himself against its base and scrabbling in the ground for the rope.

It takes him longer than he'd have liked to find both pieces, the torch-lit darkness casting shadows that make him lose his bearings a few times. But he's piloted through worse than this, with people shooting at him and men screaming from behind him and controllers yelling in his ear. The night is almost silent here, the footsteps of the guards above him on the palisade carrying well through the still air.

John moves towards the tower in the corner, wrapping the shorter piece of rope around his waist and coiling the other around his hands. There aren't enough guards for them to watch everything, all the time, and he's been timing their patrols for weeks. By the time he reaches the corner stairs, the guard has passed the corner, and John climbs as quietly as he can, trying to synchronize his movements with the guard's. At the top, he moves quickly, wrapping the loop he's made in one end of the rope over a pointed tree trunk that forms the wall of the palisade. He pushes it down far enough that, in the dark, it's hard to tell it from the ropes that hold the wall together. Perfect.

He gets rope burns trying to get down too quickly, and his feet land in something unmentionable at the bottom, but he ignores both sensations, taking a deep breath before beginning the most dangerous part of his run. There's no cover between the barracks and the edge of the town, and he feels far too visible as he sprints the five hundred meters or so to the nearest building. Once there, he slides along the wall into the deeper shadows, moving slowly from building to building, making his way steadily towards the prison on the other side of town.

*******

It's not been too bad a day. After three days of porridge and some really, really dry crackers, he's back on stew, and the bread is actually edible. The food is barely enough to keep him going, he knows that. He's getting more tired, weaker as the days go by. The stew means that he has another thirty-six hours before they come for him again, a shorter time between interrogations than usual and he wonders if he'll be able to tell them anything at all. At this rate, he's barely going to be able to remember his own name.

Except.

"Rodney?"

Rodney turns to the window, flinching as a rock is thrown past the bars, skittering across the floor.

"Sheppard?"

Rodney's on his feet so fast that his head spins. Forgetting that he's not tall enough, he hurries over to the window, looking up and out, and straight into Sheppard's upside-down, grinning face.

"How the hell ..." Rodney asks, trailing off as his balance falters and he has to hold onto the wall for support.

"Came down from the roof. Not many guards up there," Sheppard says, then taps the small strip of cloth that Rodney tied around the bars of his window, stretching up and feeling his way through it, so that any rescuer would know where he was. He'd forgotten about it, and he only realizes that he's caught up in the memory when Sheppard says his name again and he jumps. Rodney can hear the strain in Sheppard's voice. "Can you get out?"

"Oh yes, of course." The flash of sarcasm gives Rodney some of the energy he needs, and he stands upright again, glaring at Sheppard. "I was just biding my time while I starved to death." He hasn't seen Sheppard since they were separated, however long ago that was, but the other man looks far too healthy. Typical. Rodney's been languishing in prison while Sheppard's been living the high life.

"Rodney."

The tone of voice drags his mind back to the point.

"Right," he says, waving his hands vaguely, and trying to dredge up something from the depths of his memory. "I nearly got out a few times, but they caught me before I could get to the barracks."

"The barracks?" Sheppard sounds surprised.

"Yes, of course. Or don't you need rescuing?"

"Right at this moment?" There's too much amusement in the question, but Rodney's too busy being relieved to care. "Rodney," Sheppard goes on, "I need you to get yourself out of your cell and down to the door. Can you do that?"

There was the one thing he hadn't tried because it was completely insane, even for him. Taking a shaky step backwards, Rodney looks up into Sheppard's worried eyes.

"Not tonight. Tomorrow night."

Sheppard's face goes blank. "I'm due to fight tomorrow," he said softly.

"I can't-" Rodney breaks off, his mind racing. Then he shakes his head. "It's going to be a miracle if I can pull it off at all, let alone by tomorrow night. You've done alright so far, haven't you? It's just one more fight. And anyway, look at this, you're free! Can't you just hide out somewhere for the day, go to ground or whatever you call it?"

"Tried that," Sheppard says shortly. "They're very good at finding people. Tracker dogs."

"Oh." Rodney's head is starting to spin, and he puts a hand out, staggering a little before it hits the wall. He swallows. "Then you should get a head start. Make a run for the 'gate and come back for me. Once they know where we are, and you can use the 'gate address for that assuming you still remember it, the Daedalus can-"

"No." There's no arguing when Sheppard uses that tone of voice. Not that it stops Rodney trying.

"As much as I'm flattered that you're willing to put your life on the line like that, you're going to have a much better chance of reaching the 'gate without me, and they still think I'm going to tell them something useful, which I'm trying not to, but it's not that easy when they don't seem to realize that I need to eat and-"

"Rodney." Sheppard's voice is low and firm. "I get it. I'm not leaving without you. Tomorrow night?"

Leaning his head against the wall in a mixture of fear and relief, Rodney makes an affirmative noise. "Fourth bell. I can get myself as far as the main hall, but I don't know that I can get across it."

"Leave that to me."

"Right."

For a long moment, neither of them speaks, until Rodney can hear Sheppard breathing even harder.

"Get out of here, you idiot," he says, trying to put some force behind the words. "Do you have any idea how bad for your health it is to hang upside down like that? Take it from someone who knows. Who do you think you are, Spiderman?"

"Gee, thanks for your concern." But it's another minute before Rodney hears him begin to move. "See you tomorrow."

"Right. Er, good luck. With the fight, I mean. Try not to die."

There's a muffled snort of laughter, then Sheppard is gone. Turning, Rodney lets himself gently slide down the wall, until he's sitting on the cold floor. It's bad for him in all kinds of ways that he doesn't want to think about, but he used up most of his energy in that brief conversation. Of course Sheppard had expected him to just break out, just like that. It's alright for Sheppard; judging by tonight's gymnastic display, he hasn't been kept on starvation rations for however long it is -- months and months and months, it must be -- they've been stuck in this hell hole, and really, Rodney can't be blamed if the whole thing goes horribly wrong because he doesn't think that well on no food.

But it can't go horribly wrong. It just can't.

Not even attempting to get back to his feet, Rodney crawls over to the bed, climbs onto it and flops onto his back. He doesn't try to sleep, just stares at the ceiling, running through the plans he rejected so long ago. This time, he is going to make them work.

*******

John wakes up with the first bell of the day, still tired and aching a little from the previous night's exertions. He takes a moment to curse Rodney for not being ready to just leave, then he remembers the other man's faltering steps, thin face and trembling voice, and decides it's probably forgivable.

It had been a long shot to think he'd get out of here without having to kill again, and part of him hopes he'll get an easy fight today. He's not become immune to what's happening, but after this long, all he wants to think about is getting out alive.

When his cell door is unlocked, John lies still for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying to find the calm that he needs. It was easier, while all his plans were just pipe dreams, with responsibility only for himself, however much he might have hoped. Now, he keeps hearing Rodney's voice, ringing in his ears until he makes himself get up and head out into the practice yard.

Other fighters are already there, sparring in the cool of the morning and shouting to each other. Most of them are wearing the same rough shirt and pants as John, with only a few going bare-chested and even fewer wearing the small shorts that mark the lowest ranked fighters. That means the Garaldi will need to embark on new raids, snatching people from more worlds to take part in their sacrifices, find more victims for their gods, the gods who keep the Wraith from their skies. They haven't been culled in living memory, and Rodney had worked out that their planet was well away from the main feeding grounds, probably not worth bothering with usually. There's a weird kind of logic to the Garaldi belief, that somehow by offering so many lives to their gods, their gods pass them on to the Wraith, who are satisfied just with that. But with the Wraith awakening early, hungry, John guesses it's only a matter of time before they have to revise their theology, and he finds himself trying not to glance at the sky as he sets off on his morning run.

He only has until the second bell before the guards will come to take him to the arena, but it's enough to let him check that he hid the ropes sufficiently in the darkness last night, to let him drink a cup of fruit juice, to cast an eye round the other men and wonder who it's going to be today. The waiting, for the first time since his first fight, is making him jittery. Carefully, he puts the cup down and looks around, spotting the training sticks on the other side of the mock-arena.

When he picks up two of the shorter sticks, he feels eyes turn to him; the guards are staring, as are the trainers, but they're nothing compared to the surprise he can feel rolling off the other fighters. He never does this, never spars with weapons, although the fact that he keeps coming back from the arena alive tells them that he knows what he's doing with them. But now, he has nothing lose, because one way or another, this will be his last fight. And it might be really, really stupid, but he needs something to focus on, before the waiting drives him mad.

Closing his eyes and keeping his back to them all, he swings the sticks slowly, hating the lightness of them, the speed that they move through the air. They don't have the weight or balance of Teyla's bantos rods, but with his eyes closed, he can hear her voice, talking him through the basics. He starts with the first things that she taught him, moving carefully, not wanting to tire himself out, just warm his muscles. Her voice is clear in his head, low and steady, drowning out the sound-memory, the panic in her voice over the radio as she called his name, the choke-hold from the Garaldi guard stopping him from replying with more than a strangled yell.

His movements are faster now, as he begins to shift his feet, stepping carefully as he brings the sticks to each new position. Teyla had warned him of the Garaldi, of their raids and kidnappings, but he'd been unprepared for the speed of the attack, caught out by the primitive-looking weapons and slow smiles. He'd thought the men would be slow as well, only to be surprised by the hunt which had neatly separated him and Rodney from the others, splitting them up to track them down. They're good at hunting. His one comfort has been that Ronon and Teyla must have been better, since neither of them were dragged through behind him, and he doesn't doubt that they're still looking for him and Rodney. But the Garaldi are secretive and paranoid, 'gating people here via four other worlds before bringing them to their killing ground.

John is at full speed now, the sticks whistling through the air as he brings the exercise to a halt. Barely pausing, he switches to holding both sticks in one hand, moving into the steadier, more forceful routine that Ronon taught him. This one is more about strength than speed, about block and strikes and controlled power. He lacks Ronon's height and reach, but he manages well enough. Each stroke is controlled and measured, and he can feel Ronon's steadying hand, adjusting his stance, redirecting his strikes.

He hasn't thought about either Ronon or Teyla too much since he was brought to the barracks, thrust into the arena. Now, as the second bell rings and he stops the exercise, not really breathing hard, but feeling more warmed up, more prepared for the fight, they're all he can think about. He turns to face the guards, falling into step as they escort him towards the gates, and John can still hear the murmur of two familiar voices in his head as he walks to the arena, talking low and steady, as though they're watching his back. Like always.

*******

It's not as difficult as Rodney had feared. The Garaldi must think he's close to breaking, because when he asks for his laptop, his tablet, they nod and bring them, probably thinking that he's looking up answers for them. They don't know him very well, despite all the hours of questioning.

Fortunately, they also know very little about computers. As far as they're concerned, ripping the back off a laptop and pulling out wires is the normal way of operating it.

It's not easy, trying to work without tools, but he has his nails and teeth, and he makes do. The laptop battery isn't bad, one of the special ones he had made so that his computer wouldn't die on him in the middle of a mission. When he finishes linking it to the tablet's power source, he should have enough juice for what he needs. Once he modifies the tablet. If the wiring holds together. And assuming the whole thing doesn't just blow up the first time he uses it.

He's in the middle of painstakingly twisting two wires together when he hears the cheering. It might be a waste of time -- it is a waste of time -- but Rodney does it anyway. He climbs on his bed, leaning against the wall and standing on tiptoe. From here, he can see the tops of the stands, the waving hands of some of the spectators. It was better when he didn't know who was fighting, easier to ignore the screams and boos.

He sits down on the bed with a thump, trying not to let the realization of risk overwhelm him. What if Sheppard's luck finally runs out? What if his own stupid, stupid plan doesn't work? What if he gets to the main hall and Sheppard isn't there to let him out? He's on the verge on hyperventilating when he forces himself to calm down. They're on a schedule here, and he has to be done by fourth bell tonight. Work first, freak out later, he promises himself.

Moving slowly, clumsily, he sits back down on the floor and pulls the gutted laptop towards him again. Sure the risks are high, but Rodney's got his brain, which still seems to work, despite everything, and Sheppard's got that knack for survival that's saved their lives more than once, not to mention all the hours he spent getting smacked around the gym by Ronon and Teyla. They can do this.

They're going to get out of here.

*******

John picked a really lousy day for his last fight. His opponent is a head taller than him, as wide across as Ronon, big with muscle and strength and not an ounce of fat, wearing a stiff leather shirt that will probably turn away a casual strike. Better yet, he's got a broadsword, at least three feet long and double-edged. By the look of his shoulders, he knows how to handle it, too. John's got his knife and fighting stick, neither of which are going to be much help against a direct blow, unless he wants to lose a few fingers or end up with a hand full of matchsticks. Worse still, the man isn't playing to the crowd, barely acknowledging the cheers, which are louder than John's ever heard them. No grandstanding here, just a grim determination to get the job done. The Garaldi save their highest honors for those who sacrifice the most lives; this guy must be good.

Even through the soles of his shoes, John can feel the heat from the ground. The cool spell passed a few days ago, and they're back to the unrelenting heat of the Garaldi summer. John shifts his feet, judging how much grip he's going to get from the hot surface, blinking to keep his eyes clear and reaching inwards for the focus that Teyla tried to beat into him. He doesn't take too much of his attention from the other man, though, which means he doesn't miss the flicker of his eyes, the subtle shift in posture that means he's getting ready to strike.

When it comes, it's surprisingly controlled. John was right; this isn't going to be about brute force, for all that the sword is just about the biggest one he's ever seen outside the movies. He dodges the swing, moving not quite as fast as he can, just with enough speed to avoid getting hit. This isn't going to be over quickly, and he needs time to work out how it's going to go, but there's no time before the guy is coming at him again, and John does the only thing he can, dropping and rolling away, coming to his feet with bruises on his hip and shoulder.

He needs to catch his breath, needs to work out how the guy fights, and he could do that, if only he could get some space. Damn, that sword is long. It sweeps through the air where his stomach was half a second ago, and John feels something in his back protest at the frantic way he's arching it. Turning, he lets himself drop again, not stopping moving, rolling as the sword comes down beside him. The ground is dense, despite the drying heat, and it takes the guy a second to get the sword free again, time that John uses to get his feet under him, retreating backwards as fast as he can. He'd turn and run, but there's no way he's letting this guy out of his sight.

This time, when the charge comes, John waits for the last second to dodge, ducking and spinning to his right, trying to see if he can get behind and inside the reach of the blade. He can't. He's almost there when the guy starts to turn as well, knocking John out of the way with one shoulder and knocking him to the ground, so that John has to scramble out of the way of the downward strike.

By the time he gets to his feet again, he's breathing hard, although he takes some satisfaction in seeing that his opponent is as well. The sun is beating down on them, reflecting off the sand and making John long for his shades. He's vaguely aware that the crowd is going insane around him, and he wonders how long fighters usually survive against this guy. He'd guess not this long, from the contained anger that he can see in the man's eyes. Anger is good. Anger, John can use.

The guy waits a moment, apparently sizing John up. He already knows that John's fast, but he doesn't know how strong he is, if he can use that knife and that stick. But long-range attacks aren't working, so he seems to have decided that this needs to be more up close, more personal. He moves slowly this time, feinting towards John, and hell, John didn't even know it was possible to feint with a broadsword, but the guy's doing it. It's quick enough that John doesn't dare duck or turn or do anything that will lose him sight of that enormous blade.

Deciding it's worth the risk, John catches the third feint on his knife. The impact jars his arm so badly that he nearly drops it, and he can feel the shockwaves all the way up to his shoulder. Still, it was the right thing to do, because his opponent looks momentarily stunned, then properly stunned when John takes advantage and swings his stick towards the guy's head. It barely connects, some instinct making the guy jerk back at the last moment, but it's enough.

They separate, circling, and John can see a mixture of surprise and wariness on the guy's face. This isn't someone who's used to his opponents fighting back, probably more used to chasing them around the arena until they run out of energy. Or luck. John doesn't intend to run. He's ready for the next engagement when it comes, deflecting rather than blocking the sword, hitting it hard with his knife, using the force and rebound to dodge the backstroke. What he didn't know was that the guy really is as good with the sword as he looks, and the quick reversal catches him unawares. John barely has time to throw himself out of the way, and he feels something slice across his arm, sliding up to trail heat across his back. He has enough sense not to roll when he hits the ground, not wanting to add sand to the blood running down his arm and back, and he's back on his feet quicker than the other man expected, because the sword is still raised, ready to strike a killing blow to a man no longer on the ground.

It's John's only chance. Ignoring the screams of pain from his shoulder and back, he darts forwards, dropping the fighting stick and ducking under the upraised arm. The whole movement takes less than half a second, but he has time to realize that his knife won't do enough damage through the stiffened leather of the man's shirt. Dimly, he's aware that time has slowed for him, to the molasses-thick sensation that he always gets in these moments, when the chopper's taking a nose dive and the dials are going crazy and the g-forces slam him into his seat so hard that he can't breathe. He needs it, this extra time, to just think.

Turning inside the man's guard, John shifts his grip on his knife, spinning it in his hand and slamming it home as his back hits the man's jerkin. The blade slips underneath the leather, into the tiny gap between shirt and pants, and John feels warm stickiness spread over his hand. He realizes that he's yelling, the pain from his injured back making him cry out, but he only hears it dimly. He's not done yet.

Almost casually, he twists the knife, pulling it out, and bringing it up to slam hilt-first into the man's wrist. That stops the sword being brought towards him again as he turns, sweeping the knife up and along, feeling the slight resistance of skin before he cuts through the man's throat. Then he's staggering away, out of the bloody embrace and watching the sword drop, watching the blood trickle between the man's fingers as he clutches at the wound, watching the lines of red creep down his neck, down his pants from the hole in his belly, down the side of his mouth as the man's eyes go glassy and he follows his sword to the ground.

It takes John another moment to really register that his back hurts. More than hurts. It's screaming in agony, and the waist of his pants is already soaking and his shirt is clinging to him, sticky and warm. He drops the knife, falling to his knees, with his head down, trying not to pass out. Then, at last, he hears the roar of the crowd, the sound breaking over him in wave as he lets himself really listen to them, the baying and screaming that could be ecstasy or could be grief, he can't tell. Someone is pulling at his arms, getting him more or less on his feet again and half-dragging him out of the arena. He lets them, stumbling backwards and letting them catch him, because he doesn't want to turn, can't take his eyes off the body lying on the ground, blood already spreading to stain the sand. Dimly, as his vision starts to grey out and the pain takes hold, he hopes the gods of the Garaldi are satisfied at last.

#####

That which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson Ulysses

Rodney works through the sixth bell of the day, shifting irritably to follow the patch of dying light around his cell. Even now at the end of summer, the days are pretty long, and he's able to keep going past the second bell of the evening.. He needs all the time he can get, since the tablet stubbornly resisted his reprogramming until he stripped it right back to basics and started again. It's not as though he needs it to do anything complicated anyway.

When the third bell rings, he's lying on his bunk, the shut-down tablet next to him, so close that he can see his breath steaming on the surface. In the quiet, his breathing sounds ridiculously loud, and the pulse in his ears nearly deafens him. It's not too late for it all to go horribly wrong, and he has to resist the urge to check the tablet again. He can't afford to waste the power.

Whenever it was that they arrived, Rodney tried to work out how long a 'bell' lasted. He and Sheppard had counted seconds, or at least had started to before they started arguing about whether 'athlete' or 'elephant' gave them a more accurate distance between numbers. Sheppard, just because he could, had decided that 'airplane' would work just as well, at which point Rodney had snapped and started counting in his head, relying on his own internal metronome to keep him on track. Of course, Sheppard had tried to put him off by calling out random numbers, but Rodney had once played the Minute Waltz in exactly sixty seconds with his parents screaming blue murder on the other side of the wall, so he wasn't so easily distracted. Even so, it had been hard to be sure, and his calculation of two hours, thirteen minutes was probably out by at least five minutes one way or the other.

The period between the third and fourth bells is the longest 133±5 minutes of his life. Longer than the two days after their first escape attempt, when the Garaldi realized Sheppard was really very good at the killing thing and hauled him off to the arena, leaving Rodney shivering and alone. Longer than the first time he heard the yells of the arena crowds and realized that Sheppard might not be coming back for him, ever. Longer than his first interrogation session, when he thought they were going to starve him to near-death to get the answers they wanted.

He's been trying to count down the minutes, the eight thousand or so seconds, but he loses track somewhere around five hundred and has to lie there, waiting in tense silence for the first chime. When it comes, he nearly jumps out of his skin. Then he starts to yell.

It's something he's had a lot of practice at, and it's not difficult to produce the right level of hysteria, especially when, at first, nothing happens. He yells for what feels like hours, and starts to wonder if his throat will give out before someone comes to see what the fuss is about. Eventually, over his increasingly hoarse shouting, he hears the key in the lock, and footsteps coming in his direction. He slips a hand up to grip the tablet by his head. He'll only get one shot at this, literally. It has to count.

He waits until he can almost feel the guard's body heat, then he stops screaming as abruptly as he started, opens his eyes and pushes down on the new button on his tablet, ramming it up and into the guard's chest. This time, it's the guard who screams.

Rodney already knows what that much electricity can do to a person, so he's ready for the spasms, for the horrible smell that starts to fill the cell. The prongs of his improvised taser seem to have worked as well as he'd hoped, and he waits until the man stops twitching before bending down to tug the keys from still-warm fingers. From his previous escapes, he knows that the door to the stairs at the end of the corridor is locked, as is the one at the bottom of the staircase, leading to the main hall. There's no one else in the cells he passes, and he forces himself not to think about the rest of the prisoners, assuming there are any. For all he knows, he's the only one in the whole building right now. He can't afford the time to go look.

At the door to the staircase, it takes him a minute or so to find the right key, and he tries not to be driven mad by the smell coming from the guard's abandoned meal. He risks a glance at it, swallowing as his mouth begins to water, then swallowing harder when he sees the cupboard beyond the low table and chair. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to let out the whoop of joy that is his first reaction, so he settles for a hissed yes and leaves the keys in the door for a moment. Apparently the Garaldi believe in keeping all a person's belongings together, so they brought his pack up along with his laptop and table. The hoped-for guns aren't there -- they'd been the subject of his first three interrogations, but the Garaldi understood the principles of ballistics about as well as they understood wormhole physics, which was to say that they could see the effects but looked blank when he tried to explain the math --but he does find the life signs detector, along with six power bars, an MRE, an emergency blanket, three flares, a first aid kit and a radio. There's a smaller, water proof bag inside the main pack, and Rodney stuffs everything in there except the LSD, which he flicks on as he goes back to the door.

As expected, there are a few life signs on the floor below him, but there are none on the stairs at the moment, so he risks turning the key, pulling it out carefully and gripping the bunch in his hand to muffle any sounds. Then he slowly starts to creep down the stairs, half an eye on the LSD and half on the slippery stone steps, hoping desperately that Sheppard is going to be there when he reaches the bottom.

*******

It is not being John's best night ever. Everything hurts, the rough patch-up job from the trainers barely enough to stop him from bleeding copiously every time he moves. He spends most of the afternoon face down on his pallet, feeling the throb of his pulse through torn tissue and the heat of an incipient infection that creeps across his back and down his arm. His performance must have been impressive though, because he's actually brought food in the middle of the afternoon, along with clean water, a new shirt, an extra blanket and some kind of foul smelling salve that the guard spreads across the wound before leaving. It itches like crazy, and John thinks the pain was probably better.

He's drifting by the time night falls, and the third bell of the night wakes him, making him jerk half-upright and groan at the throbbing in his back. Breathing through gritted teeth, he manages to sit up, leaning his elbows on his knees until the worst of the nausea passes, then he drinks half the water and eats the odd green fruit that tastes like raspberries. It's as much as he can manage for now, and his hands are shaking as he gets to his feet. This is not good.

He staggers over to the window, resting his forehead against the wall for a moment and willing himself not to pass out. It's going to get worse before it gets better, but he has to do this. When his head stops swimming, he takes three deep breaths, filling his lungs as deeply as he can, as though he's about to go deep sea diving, then he jumps.

The throbbing is worse than the stroke of the sword had been. Then, he'd been running on adrenaline and fear. Now, he's only got water and seriously weird fruit inside him, although how long he's going keep that down, he's not sure. The nausea is horrendous, the blood down his back spreading with each throb of his pulse, and he just hangs from his fingers for a moment, trying to get past the worst. When it doesn't pass, he gives in and starts to bend his arms, scrambling up the wall, until he can get his elbows onto the sill and some of the strain eases.

He waits another moment, then starts to turn his body, pushing his head through the bars and twisting his shoulders so they'll fit. He knows he's opened the wound again, but the discomfort is nothing against the head-spinning dizziness, and the pounding of the blood that he knows is flowing from the re-opened wound. He's more light-headed than he thought, because he almost laughs as his shoulders and back scrape against the bars, thinking that maybe the blood will help him slip through. Hitting the ground with a thump knocks the hysteria away, and he lies still for a moment, getting his breath back and forcing his brain to concentrate.

His knees shake as he hurries across the compound, and he can feel his shirt sticking to the open cut. He tries to keep rolling his shoulders, stop it getting fixed in place, but that just makes it hurt, so he concentrates on staying upright and making it to the rope without passing out. Mercifully, it's still there, as is the second piece, and he can use the inner palisade for support as he makes his way to the guard tower.

There's a nasty moment when he misjudges the guards' patrols, hearing footsteps coming towards him when he's barely halfway over the outer fence. Moving quickly, he swings himself all the way over, hanging still on the other side, trying not to breathe too hard and hoping the creaks of the rope sound like the normal noises of the wooden construction. His hands are almost cramping by the time the guard goes past, but John can't risk letting go with either of them to ease the muscle strain. Instead, he concentrates on getting to the ground without breaking his neck or skinning his palms. His head and stomach are as unhappy with him as his back, and he throws up almost as soon as his feet hit mud. Rolling to one side, he rests his forehead on the cool earth for a minute. He can't stay here too long. He has to get to Rodney, then get them both to the Stargate before it gets too light. There's no chance that they'll make it before the Garaldi discover they're gone, but they're going to need as much of a head start as they can get.

Gritting his teeth, John forces himself to his knees, then to his feet. There'll be time to rest later. Right now, he has work to do.

*******

There's a small alcove, just by the door to the main hall, and Rodney spends an anxious five minutes hiding in it, eyes glued to the life signs detector and trying not to bite his fingernails. He's realized that he and Sheppard didn't actually go into details of what's supposed to happen at this point. Is Rodney supposed to be in the main hall, or is he alright where he is? The trouble with the main hall is that it's got eight guards in it, and Rodney's fairly sure that any attempt to go out there is going to end up with him back in his cell fairly quickly. The only reason he got out last time was that they were bringing some poor soul in at the same time, and Rodney's escape had caused so much chaos that he managed to slip out before anyone noticed. He doesn't think he's going to get so lucky in the middle of the night.

He waits for what he thinks is another five minutes, trying to come up with a plan that doesn't involve him walking into a room with eight heavily armed men, without so much as a penknife to his name. The first aid kit probably has some scissors, but right now, he'd take a short length of two by four over them, however sharp they are. Since the alcove is sadly lacking in any kind of adaptable material, he supposes he'll just have to go on waiting.

He's into his fourth lot of probably-five minutes -- trying to think longer than that makes him hyperventilate, so he forces himself not to -- when he hears a commotion from somewhere. This isn't the only staircase that leads onto the main hall, and he smacks himself on the forehead when he hears the noise coming from one of the others. He'd expected Sheppard to come in through the main door, but this is Sheppard, so of course he doesn't do the obvious. Rodney goes to the door, cold fingers fumbling with the keys, and he looks through the tiny window to try and see what's going on. He has to glance down to get the key in the lock, and when he looks up again, there's fighting going on in the main hall.

Sheppard looks like he's walked straight out of hell. He's swinging one of the huge axes that that Garaldi are so fond of, and he's pale in the flickering torchlight, the white of his skin stark against the dark mess of his hair. When he turns, cutting down the guard who was trying to charge him from behind, Rodney sees that the back of his shirt is stained with something dark, spreading from his shoulders down towards his waist, and Rodney knows it's blood. Idiot.

Once the door is unlocked, Rodney stuffs the LSD into the bag, fishing out one of the flares and the emergency blanket as he does so. He's moving as quickly as he can, but it's hard when he can't take his eyes off Sheppard. He's seen him sparring with Ronon and Teyla, of course, and knows he's lethal with any kind of gun, following up both with a lazy smile or a blank look, almost dismissively. This Sheppard is different, moving with a controlled fury and grim determination that makes Rodney shiver. This Sheppard is a killer.

Rodney finally finishes untangling the flare and blanket, wrapping the thin material round the bottom of the flare so he can hold it safely, then turning his face away and pulling the top off. It bursts into life, the noise and sparks drawing attention to him and giving Sheppard the chance to cut down the man nearest him with a sweep of the axe. There's blood everywhere now, soaking the floor, reflecting the light of the flare which Rodney is holding in front of him like a sword. He waves it at the guard who starts towards him, then turns and nearly hits someone in the face with it. The man goes down, clawing at his eyes.

The tongue of flame is long now, and Rodney has to be careful to keep it well away from his own face, and not look at it directly. He keeps turning, trying to see all around him at once, as he makes his way towards Sheppard, who's still grimly trying to beat one of the more determined guards. Rodney's feet slip as he comes within Sheppard's range, and he doesn't look down because really, he already knows what it is and seeing it isn't going to help. The flare goes out as he reaches Sheppard, and he tries not to gulp, throwing the useless tube away but hanging onto the blanket.

There are only two guards left now, and they're not coming anywhere near Sheppard and that axe. Rodney doesn't blame them, because he's more than a little scared of Sheppard himself at that moment. Watching them warily, Sheppard says,

"You alright?"

Rodney has to clear his throat to be able to speak. "Been better. You?"

"Peachy." Sheppard is slowly walking towards the guards, and doesn't turn to look at Rodney when he adds, "Grab a knife."

"Wouldn't a sword be-"

"Do you know how to use a sword?"

It's a fair point, but Rodney's not about to admit that. Instead, he stoops over one of the bodies, carefully not looking at the face which caught the worst of Sheppard's attack, and tugs the knife from the man's belt. Then he starts towards the door. He actually has his hand on the handle before he realizes that Sheppard isn't following him. He's got the two men backed into a corner, and still has the axe raised, although he's not moving it at the moment. Dimly, Rodney wonders if it really is possible to cut someone's head off in one stroke, then he decides that he doesn't want to find out. Self-defense is one thing; the look on Sheppard's face is murderous.

"Sheppard?" Rodney says gently, in the voice that always used to coax his cat out from under the sofa during a thunderstorm. "John, we need to go."

"We can't leave them to raise the alarm." The words are soft, hoarse, as though Sheppard hasn't really spoken properly in a long time.

"So hit them on the head and get moving." That's the voice that reduced Rodney's professors to tears during his thesis defense, because he's really had enough and if nice and gentle isn't going to work, he'll try drill sergeant instead.

It seems to rouse Sheppard well enough, who gives him a lopsided smirk that nearly makes Rodney's knees buckle in relief, then he lowers the axe, turns it and uses the handle to smack into the side of one man's head. Rodney looks away into the street, checking they haven't been spotted yet, but he hears the second blow, then Sheppard is beside him, holding a knife that looks almost ridiculously small after the axe.

"Let's go," he says, as though Rodney hadn't been trying to talk him out of cold-blooded murder two seconds ago, and he leads the way along the dark street. Glaring at his back, Rodney makes a final check behind him, but sees no movement from any of the downed men. Some of them are possibly still alive. Others, he really hopes aren't. Blinking, he gently pulls the door closed, then hurries after Sheppard.

*******

They're not in good shape by the time they reach the forest on the edge of the town. It took them longer to cover the distance than John wanted, but neither of them can move very fast. His back is hurting like hell now, a line of fire from shoulder to shoulder, and while Rodney's never exactly been a marathon runner, he gets out of breath far too quickly for John's liking. They have to dodge several patrols and people moving about the town. Why there are people around at this hour, John has no idea, and he's too busy concentrating on not getting caught and not passing out to worry.

He waits until they're a little way inside the forest to call a halt, pushing Rodney into the cover of an arching tree root.

"Wait here." Instead of arguing, Rodney nods and drops to the ground, lowering his head between his knees and breathing hard. Normally, John would put it down to Rodney being Rodney, but there's something about the slope of the other man's shoulders that makes him pause. "You alright?"

That makes Rodney lift his head. "Are you going to keep asking stupid questions the whole way?"

John grins. "Probably." He takes a final look around, noting the position of the path and listening to the rustle of leaves for a moment, then he sits down next to Rodney, hissing as it stretches his back.

"You, er..." Swallowing, Rodney starts to fish in the bag he's brought with him. "You need me to take a look at your back? There's a first aid kit in here somewhere."

"No," John says, shaking his head. "No point."

"Of course not." Rodney's hands are moving, still fiddling with the bag as he talks, and managing to get a surprising amount of annoyance into his low muttering. "You're only losing a few pints of blood. Why would that matter?"

It's such a relief, hearing Rodney's whining, irritated complaints after months of silence and screaming crowds. Still grinning a little, John shakes his head. "I'll manage. We'll just rest a few minutes, then we need to move again."

"Do we have to?" The question isn't serious, so John ignores it, closing his eyes and letting himself relax, just for a moment.

Suddenly Rodney's shaking him, calling his name and looking at him with wide, terrified eyes. He pulls away when John looks up, forehead creasing in an impressive scowl. "Could you not to do that to me, please? It's bad enough being out in a dark forest containing who knows what kind of wild animals and just waiting for a posse to start hunting us without you passing out on me."

"I'm fine," John says automatically. "There aren't any wild animals out here. The Garaldi hunted them all down. And, posse?" Rodney waves a hand irritably, and John sees that he's holding something shiny. Of course. When Rodney follows his gaze, he looks a bit shifty and clears his throat.

"Power bar?" he asks, although it's obvious the question costs him something. "I have more."

"No." The thought of food makes John's stomach roll. "Any water?"

"Ah..."

"Never mind." Leaning his head back against the root behind him, John decides they'll move in just a minute. He's shivering in the night air, probably a fever setting in from his back, and he's just trying to work up the energy to tell Rodney that they need to go soon, when something settles around him. He looks down to see the tell-tale shimmer of an emergency blanket, draped across his chest. When he glances at Rodney, the other man is carefully looking in the other direction. Snorting, John pulls it more comfortably around him, then says, "We can't stay here long."

"I know." Rodney is peering out into the forest, which is probably a good plan, since at least one of them should be alert, and John did most of the hard work back at the prison. Which reminds him...

"Meant to ask," John says, keeping his voice low, "how'd you get out?"

"Hmm? Oh." Without turning to look at him, Rodney hunches his shoulders up a little. He's probably cold too. "I converted the power sources from my laptop and tablet into a taser. Then I just attracted the attention of the guard and hit him with it. Easy."

"Easy," Sheppard echoes, shaking his head. About as easy as squeezing through cell bars and climbing a fifteen foot fence.

"How long have we been here?" Rodney asks, so softly that John almost doesn't hear it. The question surprises him, and before he can answer, Rodney goes on, "I lost some days, during questioning. Lost some more recovering. It got hard to keep track and I didn't even have anything to scratch a tally on the cell walls with."

John tries to do the math, noting the 'questioning' and 'recovery' references for the future. Aloud, he says, "They have an arena fight once every five days. I fought twenty one times, and didn't fight fifteen, so that's thirty-six times five, which is-" His mind goes blank. It's hardly difficult math, but between exhaustion, the wound in his back and the fever, he's not exactly at his best right now. For once, Rodney doesn't answer for him, and John eventually makes the numbers stop dancing behind his eyes. "Hundred and eighty," he says. "That's six months."

"That's a long time."

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a while. Then Rodney says, "The subcutaneous transmitters only have planetary range, so the Daedalus would have to be in orbit to find us, and we're a bit off of the beaten track, galactically speaking. It's a big galaxy."

"Yeah."

"We've still got the Wraith transmitters that we took out of Ronon. When we get back, I'm going to take them apart and work out how they broadcast over such long distances."

"Yeah."

"That would be worth having. A good project while I'm getting my strength back."

"Yeah."

"Of course, if I do, the Wraith will almost certainly be able to pick up the signal as well, which is probably not so good for security."

They sit in silence for a while, until John can feel his legs starting to cramp, and he has to make himself move. "Come on," he says, pulling off the blanket and folding it up again. "We need to get going."

They don't run. In the dark, over unfamiliar terrain, they'd end up falling over more than they stayed upright. But John sets a fast pace, gripping Rodney's elbow, dragging him along when Rodney starts to flag, and leaning on him when the nausea gets bad and his head starts to swim. Even despite the darkness, John's reasonably sure they're going the right way, keeping parallel to the path, through the dense undergrowth. He's operating on instinct at this point, but he's pretty sure the Garaldi brought them along the path, so following it back seems logical, even to his exhausted brain. When they stop to catch their breath, the sky is starting to get lighter, and John looks back the way they've come.

"This is pointless," he says, nodding to the trail of broken leaves and branches that they've left in their wake. "We need to get off the path completely or we may as well use it."

"Won't that make us easier to find?" Rodney's panting, and the arm in John's grip is swaying from side to side, although John's not sure which of them is moving. Probably both.

"We're easy to find at the moment." The first bell of the day will have rung by now, and the Garaldi could be on them at any minute, depending how long it took them to find the bodies. If they're lucky, they weren't found until the shift change at sixth bell. But there's no reason to think they'll get lucky now.

John was only half-conscious for most of the walk from the Stargate to the town, but he's sure it wasn't more than a few hours. He and Rodney have been walking for most of the night, so it can't be far now, and what they really need is speed. "We'll take the path," he says, half-pushing Rodney towards it. "And we need to move faster."

"Faster?" But Rodney doesn't have the breath to protest. What they need is to stop, rest a while and go on when they're stronger. That's probably the quickest way to get caught again. Rodney steadies him when he stumbles, making an impatient noise and pulling John's hand up to rest on his shoulder. They can move a little faster that way, with Rodney doing the steering and John pushing them onwards.

Vaguely, John wonders what will happen if they get caught. He's done too well in the arena for them to just kill him, probably, but he'll get busted right down to the bottom of the rankings, have to fight his way back up again. And that's odd in itself, because he knows he'd do that, knows that he'd claw his way back to where he was, further, even. He's never doubted that it's better than just letting them kill him, not once. And Rodney's too stubborn to just lay down and die.

The thought makes him grip Rodney's shoulder harder, makes them both stagger and Rodney swear under his breath as he tries to steady them again. Because John knows there's every possibility that they'll just decide Rodney's more trouble than he's worth. And Rodney wouldn't last five minutes in the arena. No, he promises himself as they turn a corner in the path, there's no way they're going back.

The landscape's changing now, with more rocky outcroppings amongst the trees. John gives Rodney's shoulder a tight squeeze, bringing them to a stop. This is the kind of terrain the Stargate is in, which means there must be some guards around here somewhere.

He doesn't realize how much Rodney's holding him up until they retreat to the undergrowth, and he steps away, trying to listen to their surroundings rather than Rodney's gasping breaths. Suddenly, John's knees won't hold him any more, and he's falling, trying to catch himself and tearing something across his back as he does so. There's a startled yelp from Rodney, who's still beside him, lowering him to the ground and bending over him. John shakes his head, trying to say that he's alright, he just needs a minute, when Rodney freezes. A second later, John hears it too.

Somewhere, in the distance, a dog is howling.

*******

Rodney is just getting ready to berate Sheppard for being a complete idiot who doesn't know his own limitations, let alone anyone else's, when he hears the dogs. The howl seems to bypass his higher brain functions, setting off some kind of primal fear that makes him grip Sheppard's arm and turn to him in sheer terror. Sheppard himself seems to be caught between pain and surprise, half-lying on the ground and staring up at Rodney, and for a moment, they're stuck like that. Rodney can read Sheppard's face now, sees the surprise replaced with fear, then sees that dissolve, leaving grim determination behind.

"C'mon," he says, using Rodney's grip to pull himself back to his feet again. Neither of them can stand very well, and they hold onto each other for a moment, swaying and trying to get their balance back. "We need to split up," Sheppard gasps, shaking Rodney a little when he snorts. "Seriously. Guards on the Stargate. Give me your knife, be ready with those flares."

Rodney's still shaking his head, but he swings the bag down from his shoulder, pulling out the flares and handing his knife to Sheppard. This is insane. They're neither of them in any fit state to take on alert, armed guards, whatever new ninja skills Sheppard's acquired in six months of fighting. And a flare isn't exactly going to be stealthy. Sheppard looks like a strong gust of wind would blow him over, while Rodney's head is throbbing, his hands are shaking, and the only reason he hasn't passed out already is that he's running on adrenaline and sheer terror.

He realizes Sheppard's talking to him, and tunes back in to hear him say, "-the other direction."

"What?"

Making an irritated noise, Sheppard starts again. "The Stargate's underground, and the entrance is like a natural arena, surrounded on all sides. When we get there, go round to the right, I'll go left. Find somewhere to hide until I take the guards out. If the dogs start coming, light up one of the flares and throw it at them. Should scare them off for a while, at least."

There was a whole lot of rubbish in those orders, but one thing in particular catches Rodney's attention. "You're going to take out the guards?" he says, giving Sheppard a skeptical look.

"Would you rather?"

"Er..."

"Then suck it up and get on with it. Come on."

Rodney's heard of the miracles of adrenaline, of the superhuman strength that lets parents lift cars off stricken children or hunters rip animals apart with their bare hands. He saw Ronon give his all to fight off a Wraith, going on for far longer than Rodney had known was physically possible. Watching Sheppard stalk off into the undergrowth, Rodney knows that's what he's seeing, the raw determination that's left behind when everything else is gone. For himself, he just feels tired, aching all over and teetering closer to the edge of exhaustion than he's ever been before. He's not exactly been on a suitable diet for hiking, the power bar's not doing much for his shaking hands or incipient hysteria, and he's more scared than he's ever been in his life. But he staggers after Sheppard, because, after all, he's a practical man, and he knows that the alternative is worse.

*******

The barking dogs are closer than John's comfortable with by the time they reach the entrance to the Stargate cave. It's just as he remembers it, a huge rock outcropping, with a natural bowl, an arena surrounded by stone on all sides. Looking at it, he can understand where the Garaldi get some of their ideas from, how they've come to see the town's arena as their safety, their only defense against the Wraith, a twisted mirror of this natural phenomenon. But it's a distant thought, something to file away and stick in his report later. Right now, he's more concerned about how many guards there are, and what they're armed with.

As they get closer, Rodney splits off to the right, just as he was ordered. That keeps him on the path side of the arena, better able to keep watch, and the sound of the flares will give John the warning he needs if the dogs get too close. John's free to think about the guards ahead of him, free to act on pure instinct, honed through months of fighting. The grips of the knives are wrapped in the same smooth cloth that the Garaldi wrapped around his, and they're well balanced, feeling secure in his hands. His back still hurts, still burns as though he's being branded, but he can ignore it for now, riding the surge of desperation as far as he needs. This is about more than fighting for his life.

They took everything from him, and until Rodney asked, he'd never really added up how long it had been, not wanting to think further than how many fights he'd survived, while keeping his eyes fixed on surviving the next one. They made him what he's become, attuned to nothing but the fight, his world contained and defined by this arena that he's about to enter. But beyond it now is Atlantis, and he's fighting for Rodney's freedom as well, for all that they've done to both of them over the months. He knows he's hallucinating, knows that the fever has gone to his head, making him punch drunk, but he swears he can hear Teyla's voice, Ronon's voice, that he can feel them at his back, urging him on. Calling him home.

He's killed the first guard on pure instinct, striking out with the knife even before the man has a chance to turn. It's a silent kill, the knife driving up through the back of the neck with enough force to shatter bone. He pulls the knife free, wiping it absently on the fallen man's shirt before moving onwards. The next guard spots him, and has the chance to cry out before John throws one of the knives, hitting him in the center of his chest and toppling him backwards. John follows it, pouncing on him and dragging the knife out, only to thrust it home again. The man's head falls back, and if he's not dead, then he's close enough.

John moves on quickly, listening for any noises from the undergrowth as he circles round to enter the stone arena. There's one sentry, obviously aware that someone is out there, but sticking to his post. Fortunately, John's kept his attention wider than just the area in front of him, so he's able to catch the one sneaking up on him before he can strike. He dodges the blow aimed at his head, striking at the man's wrist with one elbow, at his chest with the other, sending him sprawling into a bush, dropping the short sword on the way. John lets go of his bloody knife to scoop it up, using its extra length to stab into the undergrowth, not really caring if the man's alive or dead, as long as he stops moving.

The noise has put the sentry on even more of an alert, so John gives up any attempt at stealth. Still carrying the short sword, he walks onto the main path, starting to jog as he comes towards the entrance. John hesitates as the other man lifts his own sword, and it takes him a moment to work out what the problem is: it's too quiet. There's nothing around him but the rustle of the early morning wind in the trees, the howling of the dogs in the distance, and John's blood rushing in his ears. He's spent so long tuning out the screaming crowds that he feels oddly lost without them.

Ten seconds later, the feeling passes, and he's clashing swords with the guard, feeling the shock waves travel through his arms to his injured back. It hurts, but no worse than before, so he disregards it, shoving the man off and giving himself enough room to fight in. The guard is good, waiting and watching rather than just charging at John, holding the sword as though he knows what he's doing with it. It doesn't matter. John's spent six months assessing people's fighting styles in less time than this, and he already knows what he's going to do. As he closes in again, he sweeps his sword upwards, forcing the man to lift his own blade to block the blow to his face. At the same time, John brings his other hand, the one holding the knife, down and towards the suddenly unprotected belly. His opponent seems to realize the danger a second too late, trying to get his hand down, probably trying to grab John's wrist. John keeps going, the force of his movement pinning the man's hand to his stomach. The knife hasn't gone in very deeply, but it's enough that John sees awareness go out of the eyes in front of his, enough that the man starts to crumple towards the ground, barely giving John enough time to retrieve his knife. When he listens again, the dogs sound even closer.

He waits a moment, leaning against the stone pillars that mark the entrance, trying to see if there's anyone inside the arena. There's no cover in there, so once he steps over the threshold, he's a sitting duck. Taking another moment, he looks in the direction that Rodney should be coming from, not seeing any movement there. It worries him a little, but neither of them are going to get very far until he deals with any last opposition that might be between them and the Stargate, so John shakes his head to try and clear it, then steps over the threshold.

Of course, he can't possibly clear his head enough. He's lost too much blood, he knows, by the way his head is still spinning and his hands are starting to go cold. There's enough strength left in them for him to grip the sword and the knife, and as long as he can stand upright, he'll go on. Still, when yet another armed guard comes charging towards him, and John lifts his weapons, crossed to take the blow, the impact forces him back a few steps more than he'd like. There's not really enough strength in his shoulders to throw the man off, so John does the opposite, letting his knees fold and literally slipping under the man's guard. He can't get his knife down in time to strike a killing blow, so he changes the direction of his fall, bracing himself for the pain when his back hits the ground, and praying he's judged the angle right.

He has. As he falls backwards, he brings one leg up, hitting the man in the midsection and using his own momentum to throw him over John's head. There's a nasty crunching sound as the man hits the stone arena floor, and John has enough time to get his breath back before the next one is on him. He can't stay down. His back and shoulders won't take the strain, although he seriously doubts whether his legs will either. But it's the better of the two bad choices, so he rolls away from the downward stroke, coming up to his feet and staggering a little as his vision goes black for a moment. Before it clears, he feels someone hit against his upraised sword, and he reacts instinctively, parrying the blow and following it up with a knife thrust that doesn't connect with anything, but probably made his opponent back off a little. He takes a deeper breath, blinking as his eyes refocus, and lunges at the blurry shape in front of him.

The guard doesn't seem to have expected that, because he retreats, the sound of the blades sliding against each other going straight through John, setting his teeth on edge. He needs this to be over, needs to let himself stop. Warmth is flooding his back now, and his vision won't clear, staying gray around the edges and blurring in the middle. There's nothing but instinct in his head now, nothing but the sheer will to survive, the determination that having survived this far, he's not going to die now.

It seems that the guard has other ideas. John finds himself forced backwards, stumbling over the rough stone floor and desperately trying to ward off the blows to his head, his shoulders, only narrowly avoiding getting stuck through by twisting out of the way at the last moment. The movement is too much for his exhausted body, and he trips over his own feet, which suddenly seem to have been filled with lead. He yells as he lands, the pain making him black out for a moment. When he comes back to himself, he's half-curled on the ground, the guard standing over him, grinning down. He probably won't kill John, he's probably been to the arena and seen him fight, and the Garaldi venerate their successful fighters, but he will hurt him, will return him to the life that will kill him in the end.

From somewhere, John hears an almost inhuman scream, echoing round the stone bowl. The guard lifts his head, looking round for the source, and John wants to do the same, but he can't seem to get his neck muscles to cooperate. There's a familiar snap-hiss, followed by a rushing noise, and John closes his eyes instinctively, the flash of the flare bright through his eyelids. The scream that follows really is inhuman, the cry of a living creature in pain, twisted into an animal howl that cuts off too abruptly. John wants to open his eyes, wants to know what happened, except the dark is so inviting, so warm and comforting that he can't help but follow it down, sinking into blissful oblivion.

*******

Talking helps. Rodney keeps up a running commentary as he hauls Sheppard towards the spiral staircase in the center of the arena, complaining about how much he must have been eating compared to Rodney, and how it's ridiculous that Rodney has to step in and save his ass at the last minute, when really, that's Sheppard's job, and please could he just wake up now so that he can hear Rodney freaking out, rather than just lying there, looking half-dead.

He can hear the dogs barking, much closer now, and he knows they can't have more than a few minutes. Carefully, he pulls Sheppard as upright as he can, wrapping his arms around Sheppard's chest and gripping his wrists tightly. Rodney's own shirt is going to be as soaked with blood as Sheppard's at this rate, but they stand a better chance of getting down the stairs without breaking anything this way. Even so, Rodney stumbles near the bottom, and the last few feet are a breathless tumble, finishing in an undignified sprawl at the bottom. Sheppard is still pressed close against Rodney's chest, so he feels as much as hears the slight groan that the fall elicits. Grumbling about ungrateful Air Force Colonels, Rodney untangles himself, then pulls the last flare from the waistband of his pants.

It takes much, much longer to get up the stairs than it did to get down, even though he's not encumbered this time, and Rodney's seeing black spots by the time he reaches daylight. Pausing with his head just below ground level, he listens to the barking, which is starting to echo round the arena. He used the same trick for his own benefit, so he knows how deceptive the sound is, but still. They're close. Turning his head away, he lights the flare, then lays it on the top step, hoping that it'll be enough to at least discourage any pursuers for a few minutes. Then he half-falls back down the steps, to find Sheppard sitting up and looking confused.

"Where are we?" Sheppard's speech is slurred, and he groans again when Rodney bends to haul him to his feet.

"Stargate," Rodney says shortly. "Care to give me a hand here?"

With Sheppard actually trying to help, however ineffectually, they manage to stagger into the 'gate chamber, and Rodney leans against the DHD for a moment, before pulling Sheppard's arm away from his neck.

"Dial Atlantis," he says, fishing in the pocket of his oversized shirt.

"IDCs," Sheppard reminds him, but Rodney has found what he's looking for now, and waves it in Sheppard's face triumphantly.

It's his radio. Sheppard stares at him stupidly for a moment, then shakes his head and starts to dial. "It's been a long time," he says, not looking at Rodney.

"They'll be waiting for us." Rodney's having trouble with the radio buttons, his fingers too cold and tired to work it properly. It takes him three goes to get it turned on. Atlantis monitors all frequencies, but he chooses the one their team always uses, hoping it will make things go faster.

All the chevrons are dialed, but Sheppard pauses before activating the 'gate. He swallows, then turns to Rodney with a face so pale that it almost glows in the dim light. "I killed a lot of people."

"And lived to tell the tale," Rodney says irritably. "Look, I've promised myself a nervous breakdown when we get back, in which you are more than welcome to join me. But for now, dial the damn 'gate."

Sheppard's teeth are as white as his face when he grins, and he doesn't take his eyes from Rodney as he slams his hand onto the center of the DHD. Rodney can see the fear and relief in his eyes as the chamber fills with light, and he has to swallow before saying into the radio, "Atlantis, this is McKay. Do you copy?" There's no reply within half a second, so he says again, "Repeat, Atlantis, this is Rodney McKay. Can you hear me?"

"Rodney?"

"Elizabeth!"

"Rodney?"

Rolling his eyes, Rodney pulls a face at Sheppard before saying into the radio, "Yes, I've got Sheppard with me and yes, you're all very surprised and very happy, yadda yadda yadda, there'd better be a really big chocolate cake waiting there for us. Now will you lower the damn shield so we can come through before we get torn to pieces by savage dogs?"

He hears a muffled sound that could be laughter, before Elizabeth says, "The shield is down. Come on home."

This time, it's Sheppard who makes the muffled sound, but he looks almost himself when he raises an eyebrow at Rodney. "Chocolate cake?"

"Hey, if you don't want any, all the more for me." Rodney grips Sheppard's outstretched arm, leaning against him for support because he's not sure his knees are going to take him all the way to the gate otherwise. Judging by the way Sheppard's leaning against him in return, they're not going to make it very far. Fortunately, the event horizon is just a few meters away, close enough for them to limp to.

Sheppard pauses right on the edge, looking at Rodney with the first genuine smile that Rodney's seen in six months, from anyone.

"We're going home," he says, and the hand against Rodney's back tightens for a moment.

There's nothing to say to that, so Rodney grins back, feeling the relief wash through him, although really, they need to move because he'd like to arrive in Atlantis on his feet rather than in a dead faint.

"Yeah," he says, gripping Sheppard's shoulder in return, and together, they step through the Stargate.

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