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sga_saturdayTitle: Under Her Fingers
Author: esteefee
Category: gen
Words: 295
Summary: Set during the Siege. Teyla is here for a reason.
Under Her Fingers
by esteefee
The fires of the Wraith weapons bloom over Atlantis' shield like the petals of fardas in full fruiting, gold and red and deep, deep orange, just as deadly as the poisonous but beautiful flowers that so fascinated Teyla in her youth. Her mother always had to warn her tiny hands away.
But now Teyla stares up and wonders at this sight, equally fascinated, but for a different reason, because though the minds of the Wraith both draw and repel her, it is the cool blue sizzle of the Ancient technology holding back the orange fire that pulls her. It drew her to this City, and to the Lanteans—the promise so forbidden for so many centuries by the dictates of the elders who put away higher learning and sealed away all technological knowledge.
For the good of the people, so we might survive, it was always said every time Teyla asked, returning from one of her illicit trips to the ruins, the pieces of some broken, rusted thing secreted in her clothing, and she would bear her punishment in silence and hide in her tent and rub the orange rust from the metal and wonder to herself, What did this do? trying to fit the pieces together again and see if she could perceive its purpose from their motion. Curious, always curious, and wishing, and wondering.
And now she stands tall and does not regret joining the Lanteans, though tomorrow or the next day or the next might mean her future's end, because she has beheld wonders, and killed many Wraith, made hive ships burn, and seen clever human hands do unbelievable things.
Teyla lifts her fingers to the farda's bloom, the gold and red and orange dying against a shield of clear blue.
End.
Author: esteefee
Category: gen
Words: 295
Summary: Set during the Siege. Teyla is here for a reason.
Under Her Fingers
by esteefee
The fires of the Wraith weapons bloom over Atlantis' shield like the petals of fardas in full fruiting, gold and red and deep, deep orange, just as deadly as the poisonous but beautiful flowers that so fascinated Teyla in her youth. Her mother always had to warn her tiny hands away.
But now Teyla stares up and wonders at this sight, equally fascinated, but for a different reason, because though the minds of the Wraith both draw and repel her, it is the cool blue sizzle of the Ancient technology holding back the orange fire that pulls her. It drew her to this City, and to the Lanteans—the promise so forbidden for so many centuries by the dictates of the elders who put away higher learning and sealed away all technological knowledge.
For the good of the people, so we might survive, it was always said every time Teyla asked, returning from one of her illicit trips to the ruins, the pieces of some broken, rusted thing secreted in her clothing, and she would bear her punishment in silence and hide in her tent and rub the orange rust from the metal and wonder to herself, What did this do? trying to fit the pieces together again and see if she could perceive its purpose from their motion. Curious, always curious, and wishing, and wondering.
And now she stands tall and does not regret joining the Lanteans, though tomorrow or the next day or the next might mean her future's end, because she has beheld wonders, and killed many Wraith, made hive ships burn, and seen clever human hands do unbelievable things.
Teyla lifts her fingers to the farda's bloom, the gold and red and orange dying against a shield of clear blue.
End.
no subject
Date: 2011-09-04 02:37 pm (UTC)