FIC: Newborn History [week 21, tattoo]
Oct. 22nd, 2011 05:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trillingstar posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sga_saturdayTitle: Newborn History
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trillingstar
Rating: G
Word count: ~1500
Notes: Written for prompt #21, tattoo, on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sga_saturday. Early S2-ish.
Thank you todustandroses for the chitchat.
Summary: People from Earth think that the tattoo on his neck is from the military, like it's a designation or classification, and Ronon hasn't corrected them because it's none of their business.
People from Earth think that the tattoo on his neck is from the military, like it's a designation or classification, and Ronon hasn't corrected them because it's none of their business.
Two people have asked if it was something that the Wraith did to him. Beckett said, "It's all right, lad, I'm your doctor," but he'd fidgeted under the weight of Ronon's blank stare and then moved on to a different question. Heightmeyer asked, too, and she stared back, so Ronon had grunted, which seemed to be a satisfactory response in the circle of her office. The idea of psychiatry is weird; the point of secrets is to keep them. It would have made more sense if she had been a fabler or a minstrel, someone who listened without judgment to the troubles of her people and then wove stories from them, highlighting strengths, lauding triumphs and exposing villains.
But these people keep their history and knowledge in books and mechanical boxes. Books have their place, but printed words can't be altered, and bound volumes are bulky, hard to conceal, and you can't read from them in the dark.
Off-world, Ronon has seen archaeologists speechless with joy celebrating the recovery of a shard of pottery from a dusty field dig. He's noticed tears in the sociologists' eyes when gate teams return with sheaves of crumbling paper scrolls from an abandoned archive, and he's overheard snatches of excited conversation between linguists as they chip away at the language of the Ancients. They're passionate about their work, so when Teyla tells him that it's good politics to meet with the department heads, he agrees.
It might have gone better if they hadn't talked about Sateda as though it had fallen to the Wraith centuries ago, as though it was lost, stamped out, disappeared. It's still there. He's still here. Other Satedans made it out. He sits, waiting, while they thumb through pages of notes and put marks on the whiteboard. Finally they look at him, ready to pick him apart. Their bright eyes and cocked heads remind Ronon of the tricolored pezzi that built their nests outside his barracks, and how they begged for scraps, their tapered little beaks clicking in supplication. It was a joke: feed a pezzi, friend for life. They made for the best perimeter alarms, though, with sharp eyesight and a loud shriek that wakens the soundest sleeper.
The questions they ask are the wrong ones. They want to know about the water supply network, which Ronon knows nothing about. He grew up in the country, not the city. They want to know about marriage rituals, and he doesn't know the answer to that either; it's different for everyone, and each ceremony is kept private between the couple, or among the group. His younger sisters hadn't been anywhere near courtship age, let alone marriage. They want to know about what he's wearing, as though his clothes have been preserved for seven years while he was Running. No, he didn't choose each glass bead that's been sewn onto his shirt. None of them have meaning. He bought it at a seasonal market because he liked the fringe and it was comfortable. It's not the kind of answer that they want.
The linguist, a woman who reminds Ronon of his mother's best friend, down to the way she gesticulates to accompany her words, wants to know about written history. She wants to know if it's worth it to dig through the rubble, searching for the annals of Sateda's government.
He controls his flinch at her words, but she's already shrinking back in her chair, and he wonders what he couldn't rein in, what emotion's showing on his face.
Ronon can name every conqueror from Sateda's long history, he knows what they all looked like, can picture them easily – he has a painting of The Three, his favorite warriors, hanging in his quarters – but he can't spell their names or give a chronological timeline of their losses and glories. He has no idea when the steam-powered engine they used in the motorized carts was invented or how long it took to construct the forum at the capital. There might have been people who did, but he doubts that anyone wrote it down. It's easier to teach people to speak or sign than to read, and if there was a choice between bringing weapons or food or books, one guess what got left behind.
From their expressions, he sees that he's a disappointment.
There aren't any questions about music, or food, or what you did when a girl who you liked but didn't want to court gave you an ulka branch that had been stripped of its flowers. Ronon knows the recipe for the stew his mother made when his papo was sick because he watched her make it so many times. He knows how to whistle the tune to attract the songbird whose call sounds like a scolding, and he knows that you have to set traps for rangsers under a thin layer of sod. He can calculate angles in his head as well as any artillery specialist; he knows the four essential ingredients for a longsleep poultice; he can shoot a pezzi out of the sky at four hundred paces but he wouldn't; and the three people sitting in front of him don't want to know any of that. They don't want to know him.
He is his ancestry. He doesn't know how to explain that, so he leaves. The conference room is silent as he walks away. He doesn't owe any of them an explanation.
To the soldiers, it's as though he didn't have his own life before the military, and maybe that's how it is on Earth. Everyone assumes he volunteered, and all they want to know about is the different ways Satedans fought the Wraith and what tactical maneuvers they used, what worked and what failed, and was there any chance of getting the kind of blaster that Ronon carries on his hip? No one has asked about what he did before he became Specialist Dex, or even what was his specialty.
Teyla might not understand, but she would listen, only his anger's growing ugly and he doesn't want her to see it. Sheppard's getting better with the bantos, but right now Ronon wants to pound something to a pulp. A Wraith or five would do, but he can't gate off-world whenever he feels like it; everything has to be discussed, analyzed and approved.
He can't leave the planet, but he can leave the city, and there's never anyone on the north pier because it's cold in the shadow of the main spire. The sound of the water washing against the shore calms him, and if the birds circling high overhead don't shriek out a greeting, he can still close his eyes, touch his fingers to the ink on his neck and pretend.
Three circles, one for each of his parents' children. The circles are dark because his parents are dead. If Ronon wanted to, he could put a line between the bottom two, indicating that his sisters are dead. He's never felt the urge, because he doesn't know for sure, and it would be reprehensible if he's mistaken. A slender line curved slightly to the left, indicating he'd given his heart to someone, a woman. If he'd married Melena, there would have been an extra line at the base, and if he'd been made a widower, a flick at the top.
The third mark is the weightiest, signifying lineage. The thickness of the arch represents birth order, the direction of the flick is a register of which of the eighteen major bloodlines he's descended from, and the point at the juncture means Wraith-killer.
He wears his history on his body, like every Satedan who was born there, and at a glance, he can see who he's related to, if they have a family, if he should be offering congratulations or sympathies. Ronon has seen hundreds of combinations of lines, flicks, tails and circles, the links and bonds between humans. These are the important things to know.
When Ronon opens his eyes, Sheppard's standing a few yards away, staring out over the ocean. He's got great peripheral vision, so Ronon raises his hand in acknowledgment, then walks over.
Sheppard licks his lips. He does that when he's nervous, or when he's searching for the right words. Ronon waits.
"Dr Bau said you looked like a man on a mission," Sheppard says. "You okay?"
Ronon thinks that Bau's the archaeologist. He shrugs, stroking his fingers along the handle of his gun. It might be good politics, but Ronon still has things that're just his, and he's not ready to share them.
"Wanna go blow stuff up?" Sheppard asks. "Got a shipment of Stingers in, need to figure out some ranges."
Sheppard knows everything about every piece of artillery in the armory, but Ronon knows the offer for what it is; he says, "Yeah," and almost smiles, so Sheppard will know that he's really okay.
end
Author:
trillingstarRating: G
Word count: ~1500
Notes: Written for prompt #21, tattoo, on
sga_saturday. Early S2-ish.Thank you to
dustandroses for the chitchat.Summary: People from Earth think that the tattoo on his neck is from the military, like it's a designation or classification, and Ronon hasn't corrected them because it's none of their business.
People from Earth think that the tattoo on his neck is from the military, like it's a designation or classification, and Ronon hasn't corrected them because it's none of their business.
Two people have asked if it was something that the Wraith did to him. Beckett said, "It's all right, lad, I'm your doctor," but he'd fidgeted under the weight of Ronon's blank stare and then moved on to a different question. Heightmeyer asked, too, and she stared back, so Ronon had grunted, which seemed to be a satisfactory response in the circle of her office. The idea of psychiatry is weird; the point of secrets is to keep them. It would have made more sense if she had been a fabler or a minstrel, someone who listened without judgment to the troubles of her people and then wove stories from them, highlighting strengths, lauding triumphs and exposing villains.
But these people keep their history and knowledge in books and mechanical boxes. Books have their place, but printed words can't be altered, and bound volumes are bulky, hard to conceal, and you can't read from them in the dark.
Off-world, Ronon has seen archaeologists speechless with joy celebrating the recovery of a shard of pottery from a dusty field dig. He's noticed tears in the sociologists' eyes when gate teams return with sheaves of crumbling paper scrolls from an abandoned archive, and he's overheard snatches of excited conversation between linguists as they chip away at the language of the Ancients. They're passionate about their work, so when Teyla tells him that it's good politics to meet with the department heads, he agrees.
It might have gone better if they hadn't talked about Sateda as though it had fallen to the Wraith centuries ago, as though it was lost, stamped out, disappeared. It's still there. He's still here. Other Satedans made it out. He sits, waiting, while they thumb through pages of notes and put marks on the whiteboard. Finally they look at him, ready to pick him apart. Their bright eyes and cocked heads remind Ronon of the tricolored pezzi that built their nests outside his barracks, and how they begged for scraps, their tapered little beaks clicking in supplication. It was a joke: feed a pezzi, friend for life. They made for the best perimeter alarms, though, with sharp eyesight and a loud shriek that wakens the soundest sleeper.
The questions they ask are the wrong ones. They want to know about the water supply network, which Ronon knows nothing about. He grew up in the country, not the city. They want to know about marriage rituals, and he doesn't know the answer to that either; it's different for everyone, and each ceremony is kept private between the couple, or among the group. His younger sisters hadn't been anywhere near courtship age, let alone marriage. They want to know about what he's wearing, as though his clothes have been preserved for seven years while he was Running. No, he didn't choose each glass bead that's been sewn onto his shirt. None of them have meaning. He bought it at a seasonal market because he liked the fringe and it was comfortable. It's not the kind of answer that they want.
The linguist, a woman who reminds Ronon of his mother's best friend, down to the way she gesticulates to accompany her words, wants to know about written history. She wants to know if it's worth it to dig through the rubble, searching for the annals of Sateda's government.
He controls his flinch at her words, but she's already shrinking back in her chair, and he wonders what he couldn't rein in, what emotion's showing on his face.
Ronon can name every conqueror from Sateda's long history, he knows what they all looked like, can picture them easily – he has a painting of The Three, his favorite warriors, hanging in his quarters – but he can't spell their names or give a chronological timeline of their losses and glories. He has no idea when the steam-powered engine they used in the motorized carts was invented or how long it took to construct the forum at the capital. There might have been people who did, but he doubts that anyone wrote it down. It's easier to teach people to speak or sign than to read, and if there was a choice between bringing weapons or food or books, one guess what got left behind.
From their expressions, he sees that he's a disappointment.
There aren't any questions about music, or food, or what you did when a girl who you liked but didn't want to court gave you an ulka branch that had been stripped of its flowers. Ronon knows the recipe for the stew his mother made when his papo was sick because he watched her make it so many times. He knows how to whistle the tune to attract the songbird whose call sounds like a scolding, and he knows that you have to set traps for rangsers under a thin layer of sod. He can calculate angles in his head as well as any artillery specialist; he knows the four essential ingredients for a longsleep poultice; he can shoot a pezzi out of the sky at four hundred paces but he wouldn't; and the three people sitting in front of him don't want to know any of that. They don't want to know him.
He is his ancestry. He doesn't know how to explain that, so he leaves. The conference room is silent as he walks away. He doesn't owe any of them an explanation.
To the soldiers, it's as though he didn't have his own life before the military, and maybe that's how it is on Earth. Everyone assumes he volunteered, and all they want to know about is the different ways Satedans fought the Wraith and what tactical maneuvers they used, what worked and what failed, and was there any chance of getting the kind of blaster that Ronon carries on his hip? No one has asked about what he did before he became Specialist Dex, or even what was his specialty.
Teyla might not understand, but she would listen, only his anger's growing ugly and he doesn't want her to see it. Sheppard's getting better with the bantos, but right now Ronon wants to pound something to a pulp. A Wraith or five would do, but he can't gate off-world whenever he feels like it; everything has to be discussed, analyzed and approved.
He can't leave the planet, but he can leave the city, and there's never anyone on the north pier because it's cold in the shadow of the main spire. The sound of the water washing against the shore calms him, and if the birds circling high overhead don't shriek out a greeting, he can still close his eyes, touch his fingers to the ink on his neck and pretend.
Three circles, one for each of his parents' children. The circles are dark because his parents are dead. If Ronon wanted to, he could put a line between the bottom two, indicating that his sisters are dead. He's never felt the urge, because he doesn't know for sure, and it would be reprehensible if he's mistaken. A slender line curved slightly to the left, indicating he'd given his heart to someone, a woman. If he'd married Melena, there would have been an extra line at the base, and if he'd been made a widower, a flick at the top.
The third mark is the weightiest, signifying lineage. The thickness of the arch represents birth order, the direction of the flick is a register of which of the eighteen major bloodlines he's descended from, and the point at the juncture means Wraith-killer.
He wears his history on his body, like every Satedan who was born there, and at a glance, he can see who he's related to, if they have a family, if he should be offering congratulations or sympathies. Ronon has seen hundreds of combinations of lines, flicks, tails and circles, the links and bonds between humans. These are the important things to know.
When Ronon opens his eyes, Sheppard's standing a few yards away, staring out over the ocean. He's got great peripheral vision, so Ronon raises his hand in acknowledgment, then walks over.
Sheppard licks his lips. He does that when he's nervous, or when he's searching for the right words. Ronon waits.
"Dr Bau said you looked like a man on a mission," Sheppard says. "You okay?"
Ronon thinks that Bau's the archaeologist. He shrugs, stroking his fingers along the handle of his gun. It might be good politics, but Ronon still has things that're just his, and he's not ready to share them.
"Wanna go blow stuff up?" Sheppard asks. "Got a shipment of Stingers in, need to figure out some ranges."
Sheppard knows everything about every piece of artillery in the armory, but Ronon knows the offer for what it is; he says, "Yeah," and almost smiles, so Sheppard will know that he's really okay.
end
no subject
Date: 2011-10-25 06:33 am (UTC)