Teyla smiled a little as she watched Isabeau run back and forth, helping her father pack. Liliana was finishing packing up food for all of them and glanced to Teyla. “Have you eaten?”

She shook her head. “I am fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Teyla stepped over, picking up one of the packs and holding it open for the other woman.

Liliana smiled in thanks as she began to pack the satchel. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you found us.” She shook her head in wonder. “It makes me think that Ronon is more charmed than I’d imagined – this isn’t the end of your story, I know it.”

Teyla felt her throat tauten and her eyes conveyed the heartfelt hope and appreciation for Liliana’s words that she could not find the tongue to voice.

Liliana squeezed her shoulder. “You know he is alive – that is enough for me. He has endurance like no other I’ve met. Whatever hardships he’s facing, he’ll be all right. And once he sees you alive and well he’ll be all the stronger.”

Teyla began to synch the pack shut. “He truly believes that I am dead?”

“A cruel joke.” Liliana’s brows were furrowed as she stuffed some hardy fruit into another pack. “You both believing the other was lost... well, the sooner we get to him the better. The region he’s in is outside of jurisdiction.”

“What does that mean?”

Liliana licked her lips, pausing to lock gazes with her. “It means that they make their own laws. Most escaped slaves free there to get away from the drivers that hunt them but they wind up living a worse life.”

Teyla swallowed, slowly looking away. “It is difficult to imagine anything more horrible than the plantations.”

Liliana rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. When Teyla hesitantly met her gaze again Liliana pulled her into a tight hug, their hearts beating against each other’s breasts. Teyla bit her lip and hugged her back, surprised by the warm welcome of these strangers and the sense that she somehow already knew them, founded solely in the memory of Ronon within the walls of their home. “If it truly is such a dangerous place, then your children should be as far from it as possible.”

Liliana nodded. “I know. My sister is on her way. She’ll stay with them while we’re gone.”

Teyla pulled away. “Thank you for all of your help.”

“You can thank me when Ronon’s back with us, sitting by the fire.” She smiled and brushed some hair off Teyla’s cheek. “With your ship – maybe even tonight.”

Teyla’s smile was crooked and bashful, her heart leaping into her throat.

Ronon’s side was burning and every now and then he’d glance at the festering cut across his ribcage, swallowing past the dryness of his throat as he noted the wound was growing puckered, red and swelling the surrounding flesh. He wiped at the sweat dotting his hairline, having known for some time now that the creeping sensation at the back of his throat indicated a growing fever. He’d outlasted infections many times as Runner and wasn’t overly concerned about this one, however when he’d been outside he was able to wash and keep an eye out for any medicinal plants. He wasn’t confined to a rank cell with a bucket of feces in the corner. He didn’t have so many flies landing on him during the day that he eventually gave up swatting them away. The stench of the vomit a few cells down, baking in the sun, was enough to make him wish that this fever would sweep him into delirium.

The distant beat of the crowd chanting and cheering during a fight felt like it echoed the throb of his pulse in his wound and head and he leaned his forehead against the stone wall, letting out a deep breath, causing a fly to buzz off of his still-swollen lip. At least their tickling touch was a brush of life.

The doors at the end of the cell opened and he watched with lethargic interest as two armed slaves strolled down the hall. His brows twitched together when they paused in front of his cell and one began to unlock it. “Satedan?”

He stiffened, lowering one foot to the floor. “I’m not supposed to fight until tomorrow.”

“Rashid changed his mind,” the second slave grunted as he hauled Ronon by his arm, causing him to stumble to his feet.

Ronon yanked his arm back, straightening on his own. The slave glanced at the stain on his tunic from his wound. “That’ll slow you down.”

Ronon gave him a look of loathing then stiffly followed him out of the cell. He stretched his torso as they walked towards the arena, feeling the blood rushing about in his head from his sudden movement. His side twinged and flamed with each breath but he steeled himself against the pain, straightening his shoulders, his limbs suddenly alive with the feverish thought that once he was in the ring he would be in the open, and once he was in the open he may find escape and a way to Teyla.

The other two slaves shoved him at the doors and he could hear Rashid’s voice booming around the arena, announcing The Satedan. The crowd cheered and stomped and stormed, but Ronon did not move. The two slaves who guarded him glanced at each other, silently agreeing to allow Ronon this slight insurrection. From the shadows of the entranceway he could see Rashid in his spectator’s box, a finely-dressed woman snug around his arm. The two were smiling at the crowd as the cheers began to fade when Ronon did not enter right away.

Rashid’s smile was slipping as he looked to the entranceway, knowing from the open gates that Ronon was there. He cleared his throat, smiling at the woman beside him, then let out a shaky breath, muttering “come out. Come out.”

The crowd began to hum as discussions flared until one began to clap out a pulsing beat. The others soon joined, adding to the drum of their snapping flesh the chant of “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Ronon’s lip curled in a small smile at the simplicity of it all. He was a slave yet had more power than his master.

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

He waited several heartbeats longer, until the crowd began to stomp in time to the chant, coughing out their incantation. He then stepped into the arena, keeping his stride casual, causing the stands to erupt with cheers and hundreds of pounding feet as they drummed out their approval. Ronon sauntered to the middle of the arena, stopping in front of the sword on the sand, masking the ache of his fever-sapped muscles, and let out a dramatic, chest-heaving sigh. Many in the crowd laughed. He looked to Rashid who was no longer smiling.

Rashid raised his arm and the gates at the other side were opened, two other warriors spilling out. Ronon immediately sized them up, scowling. They were Bola Kai and he knew that more than a few full-forced blows from his sword would leave him winded. His mind immediately began to race through his mild panic, assessing the possibilities of his foes weaknesses, noting how one favored his right foot and how the other kept glancing to the stands, marking him as a newcomer. He’d be the easiest to take down.

Ronon glanced down at his sword, knowing that if he bent to retrieve it he’d betray the stiffness of his side and instead hooked his foot under the hilt and flicked the toe of his boot, a trick he mastered in the barracks of Sateda while bored and bonding with his fellow soldiers. The weapon spun upwards and he caught it by the hilt, prompting several in the crowd to laugh and whistle and cheer. The woman beside Rashid stepped forward and cocked her head.

The cries died down and there were several moments taut with anticipation as neither Ronon nor the Bola Kai moved. Ronon kept his eyes locked onto the one with the limp, fooling the other into thinking that he was momentarily invulnerable. No use in wasting energy going to them when one of them would come running at him in three... two... The Bola Kai charged from the side, just as Ronon had predicted, welding his axe above his head to land a sundering blow that never came, for Ronon extended his wingspan by holding out his blade, impaling the man, his motions slow and measured from his sickness, making it appear as casual as shaking water off his hands.

The crowd roared and cheered and laughed and even Rashid cracked a smile. The remaining Bola Kai panted as his fellow gurgled and dislodged himself from the blade, covering the spurting wound in his chest with his hand before tripping on his own feet. The standing Bola Kai looked from the gasping, writhing flesh to Ronon who shrugged. The Bola Kai screamed, attempting to drown out the roaring laughter from the crowd as he charged at him. The Satedan whipped his sword in front of him to parry a blow, stumbling back, realizing with a flush of adrenaline that he’d been fooled. This man was not injured at all.

The vibration of the hilt of the man’s axe connecting with Ronon’s sword sent a pulsating quiver down his arm, shooting into his shoulderblades. Ronon gasped and flexed his quads, bracing his frame and shoving against the axe with a scream, pushing the Bola Kai away from him. The other man stumbled backwards but swung as he hunkered down to catch his balance and Ronon leapt to the side, barely escaping the slicing blow as he landed on his chest. The crowd cheered and booed and Ronon coughed, the pain flaring from his wound momentarily making his vision swim. He could tell by the sudden roar of the stands that something was coming and hearing a footfall to his right he rolled to his left just as the axe was embedded beside him.

The Bola Kai grunted then swung again and Ronon parried the blow with his sword, knowing that the other man would take full advantage of the leverage of his weapon above him, then slammed the blade of the sword against his shins, slicing and bruising. He rolled away and rose to his feet while the Bola Kai screamed and stumbled then charged. Ronon ducked a rage-filled blow and used his momentum to hack into the man’s leg, severing his hamstrings. The Bola Kai tripped on his limp leg then, stumbling backwards, landed on the axe of his dead companion, severing his own spine.

Ronon panted and stuck the sword into the ground to brace himself, watching as the Bola Kai went limp. He blinked several times as the blood rushing in his head made him dizzy and heard the roaring of the crowd like a distant sea.

Rashid grinned. “They love him. This man is a gold mine.”

The woman beside him grinned, looking from him to Ronon.

The Jumper touched down under the cover of night, landing in a clearing a half mile from the main road. “This is as close as I feel comfortable,” Sheppard commented, powering down the systems.

Teyla nodded. “Very well.” She looked to Rodney, who was consulting his screen.

“He’s west of us... he’s been in a relatively small area for a while now.”

“So they’ve got him cooped up,” Sheppard said as he rose, double-checking his gear. Teyla followed suit. The colonel looked over to Liliana and Curtis who were readying travelling cloaks. Sheppard, Teyla and McKay were all dressed in the attire of the people of the planet, concealing their weapons wherever they could.

As each slipped into a cloak McKay couldn’t help a crooked smile. “I feel like we’re... Hobbits or something.”

Sheppard smirked and Teyla furrowed her brow. “What is a Hobbit?”

“They’re these short little guys with big feet – remember, Lord of the Rings?”

She raised her brows. “Ah, yes.”

“One of Ronon’s favorite movies, as I recall,” McKay added with another smile. Teyla returned the playful look and shook her head.

Sheppard strapped a handgun to the back of his belt beneath his cloak. “Well, we can all sit around and watch it together once we get back.”

McKay looked to him. “Really? All three? That would be like, ten hours well spent.”

“I’m sorry, to what are you referring?” Liliana asked.

Sheppard looked to her as he double-checked the knife in his boot. “It’s just a form of entertainment. We’ll tell you later.”

Liliana nodded and smirked at Curtis then furrowed her brow at a sniffle that came from behind them. She and her husband both turned to look at the back of the empty Jumper.

McKay’s eyes were a little wide. “What? What is it?”

Sheppard gently shoved forward. “I heard it, too.” He pulled out his gun, glancing around, holding up a hand to keep the others quiet.

McKay nervously whispered to Teyla. “What do you think it was?” She glared at him and he quieted.

Sheppard cocked his head at another small sound, his brows scowling, then crouched by one of the benches, pressing on the release of latch. His face relaxed with irritated surprise when the compartment fell open and he saw what was inside.

McKay craned his neck to see. “What? What is it?”

Sheppard looked over at him. “A Hobbit.” He held out his hand to help Isabeau out of the compartment.

Ronon couldn’t keep from growling out a frustrated yelp as the alleged healer doused his side with an antiseptic solution, causing the already aggravated wound to sizzle and burn with such intensity that white spots began to dot his vision like mold. The healer allowed the solution to hiss on his flesh for some moments before dousing it with water, making Ronon gasp as the stinging liquid was washed away. “Here.” The healer handed him a towel, stepping aside so that the Satedan could stiffly sit up from the table he was lying on.

He shakily did so, closing his eyes against a wave of nausea, gingerly pressing the towel to his throbbing side. “Aren’t you going to stitch it?”

The healer stepped in front of him, wiping off his own hands. “Stitch?”

Ronon opened his eyes, staring at the man with exhausted shock that was washed away by the jaded thought that he should know better. “Nevermind.”

“Step aside, healer,” came a woman’s lyrical voice.

Ronon looked over to see the elegantly dressed woman from Rashid’s box. She smiled, the expression exaggerated by a delicate silver chain extending from a piercing above her lip to one on the side of her nose. Her lips were painted with a shade of warm rose and her eyes outlined by kohl. When she paused before him he could smell the fragrance that exuded her status.

Apprehension crept up the ladder of his spine as she smiled at him, holding out her hands. “Let me see.”

He knew he didn’t have a choice and slowly removed the stained towel, allowing her to peer at the wound.

She hissed. “You didn’t get this today.”

He only swallowed, wishing she’d leave him alone so that he could lie back down on the table and close his eyes for a few minutes before the healer returned, the idea of getting some sleep in a room that only stank of torchflame and mildew was enough to make his eyelids heavy.

She glanced to his eyes when he didn’t answer then peered at the wound again, lightly pinching at the inflamed skin around it. “Does this hurt?” He hissed in a breath and she smiled at his reaction, straightening. “I am Lady Dannella, but you can call me Danni.” She continued to smile, waiting for him to offer his name, but his lips never moved. “Look,” she said as she lowered her voice, glancing around her and reaching up to take off her gold-threaded headshawl. “Rashid doesn’t know I’m down here so I have to make this quick.”

Ronon furrowed his brow then looked down to his wound, gently pressing the towel against it once more as it began to run.

“How would you like a hot bath and a bed to sleep in tonight?”

Ronon looked back up at her with surprise, his heart skipping a beat as he wondered if she could possibly be another Abolitionist who could help him, but the second he realized that her eyes were tracing the contours of his shoulders and torso instead of his face he knew otherwise.

She smiled again when she realized he was watching her. She took a step closer, reaching out to cup his chin. He would have pulled away but knew it would only bring a fresh bout of pain from his finally calming side, so he held still, and she mistook his stiffness for compliance. She tilted his chin, eyeing the wound on his lip then let go, sitting down beside him, resting one hand on his thigh and tangling the other in the curls at the base of his neck. “Of course...” she dropped her voice to a heavy tone, her hand inching inward along his thigh, “...you’ll have to make love to me first.” She tilted her chin so that her lips were beside his ear. “Do I make it sound like that’s a bad thing?”

Her hand began to grope and he shoved her arm away, turning to look at her. “I have a wife.” In the heartbeat that it took for Dannella to recover her simpering smile, Ronon’s heart quickened when he realized that even if what he’d said wasn’t true in the eyes of some, it was to him, and the knowledge that he was willingly bound to Teyla gave him a rush of strength that cut through the haze of fever in his mind.

“A wife?” she whispered, trying to return her hand to where it left off.

“Yeah.” He continuously batted her hand away as he answered. “A wife.”

“I didn’t know your kind had wives.” She finally seemed content to rest her hand on his knee.

Ronon couldn’t hide his scathing expression and looked away.

“I have a husband. He doesn’t know I like to play with his toys.”

His breath hitched as he felt his heart begin to beat faster.

She trailed her fingertip down his cheek and over the bump of his jawline, down his neck. “I’ll bet you enjoy pleasuring her.” She leaned in and planted a kiss on the stubble on the skin over the hinge of his jaw. Her other hand came to rest on his chest, her fingers digging into the muscle. “Well... she’s not here. I want you to pretend I’m her.”

He turned to look back at her, his lips parting to call for the healer when suddenly hers were against his, sucking and tugging as she lifted a leg out of the slit in her long skirt, straddling him and pressing her torso against his, pushing him backwards.

“Lie down,” she whispered, as if he had a choice with her weight leaning against his wound, and he gave in with a quiet gasp and a quiver of pain. She smiled as she repositioned herself on him, reaching down to pinch his side, catching him off guard and making him yelp. “I love that sound.” She kissed him again, nipping at his lower lip, digging her fingernails into his chin to hold his mouth in place when he tried to pull away. She let out a hungry moan when she broke the scab on his lip and began to suck at the iron of his blood, sending shooting pains into his jaw.

Ronon had the thought to bite her tongue but given her behavior, he figured she might actually enjoy it. He placed a hand on either side of her hips and tried to shove her off of him but she only laughed and gripped with her thighs, biting his lip and pinching his wound in return.

“My bodyguard will hold you down if he must,” she half-panted as she parted her lips from his. “But I will have you.”

Ronon’s heart was hammering in his chest, wild despair heightening the jade of his eyes as he realized that she was right. He’d seen her bodyguard and two others just outside the infirmary, a few feet from her beck and call. He knew that he couldn’t escape, that she could make his body betray him, and that all his strength and his sense of honor burnt like paper in the flame of this corruption. His only hope was to plead with her. “Dannella...” She smiled sweetly, as if she really were his lover, tangling a hand in his hair. His lips pressed together as he swallowed, his eyes pleading. He couldn’t manage more than a whisper. “Please...”

She cocked her head and adopted a compassionate expression upon seeing the plea in his eyes. “Aww.” She leaned down and dragged her tongue over his chin, licking up the blood that trickled from his split lip. “Already begging? You can have fun, too, you know.” She pinned his hands down as kissed him again with a thrust of her pelvis and he gasped, chest and face flushing as he felt the glands of his body react. Her hand unfastened his breeches and began to tug as she shifted her lips to his neck.

The touch of their flesh didn’t seem to be enough to sate her and she grabbed at his side and lapped at the blood on his lip, seemingly finding the most pleasure in his gasps and squeaks and intermittent cries of pain as she did so. When at last they shuddered she moaned and jerked and panted against his chest, nipping at his flesh in cruel mockery of love bites as she continued to shiver with pleasure. She slid off him and noticed the tears that slid down his cheek with a smile, bending over to taste one with the tip of her tongue tangling a hand in his hair and pressing her lips against his cheek as she murmured, “Pretty, don’t cry. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She kissed him again, her tongue once more probing his wound before she readied herself and left.

It wasn’t until he heard the metal of the gate shutting that he dared to move, fixing his trousers and examining his now bleeding side wound, letting his chest shake as he gasped out a full sob, biting his lip and whimpering against the onslaught of disgust, filth, loathing, guilt, and helplessness, all of which were warring for the chance to pierce his heart first.

Branded Heart

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