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TITLE: To Serve A Queen
PAIRING: Elizabeth Weir/Ronan Dex
RATING: R
NOTES: It's slowing down; the next few parts are going to be more developing-action oriented. I hope I'm not infodumping too fast, because I feel like I am.
Summary of this chapter? "Ronan and Sheppard fight. Elizabeth really isn't pleased."
Incidentally, neither this section nor any of the previous sections have been beta'd: if there's anyone out there willing to hazard beta'ing this monster of a crackfic, drop me a comment. You will need to have read the Black Jewels Trilogy and The Invisible Ring by Anne Bishop or else a lot of what I'm going through won't make sense.
Part Four is found here if you missed it.
To Serve A Queen - Part Five
He saw the wary looks the other men gave him as he walked out into the yard in the cool light of dawn.
"Up early, I see," said a cool voice at his shoulder.
Ronan whirled to see the Black Widow emerging from the doorway behind him and fought down the urge to back away. He would challenge any male here, but a witch who could shatter his mind with a Tangled Web was a very different matter. "Are you watching me?"
Her amusement grew. "No." She stepped past him, the loose cut of her trousers flowing lightly around her form and hinting at muscular legs beneath. Black Widow she might be, but she was clearly not indolent. "Are you intending to join in with the morning training?" Dark eyes regarded him without ploy or coyness, just a direct question.
He sensed the mood of the practice yards changing as he stood there, looking down at her. He knew that somewhere out in the array of men, another Warlord Prince was approaching, coming to make his presence and possession known. That coming storm gave him the audacity to cover his fear, flash a grin at her, and ask, "Are you?"
One eyebrow quirked. "Of course."
She made it sound so natural.
Ronan looked her over with the eye of a trained warrior. She was small and trim, her arms were lean and well-muscled and the look in her eyes warned him that she'd be a dangerous opponent - as if being a dark-jewelled Black Widow wasn't enough to make a woman dangerous.
At least she had a sense of humour.
"Teyla." Both of them looked over at the man who came up beside her, feet planted wide, his hands clenched around a pair of unbladed sticks.
Ronan met the flat, hard gaze of the Warlord Prince who'd tried to confront him last night. "Prince."
The man eyed him. "I don't believe we've been introduced. John Sheppard."
"Ronan Dex." He measured up the other Warlord Prince, well aware that he was being similarly summed up.
"I invited Ronan to join in with the weapons practise," Teyla said, ignoring the undercurrents between the two men. "He was trained as a guard at the last court he served in."
He was impressed with the distinction she made between the court he'd served in and the courts he'd slaved in. His slave history might be common knowledge after last night's interview, it might not. But she had effectively given Sheppard notice that any other commentary on Ronan's background was unacceptable.
Whether Sheppard would be ruled by that was another matter.
However, the other male only gave him a challenging look. "Is that so? You won't mind sparring against some of the men, then." And placing his hand firmly in the small of Teyla's back, Sheppard drew the woman back towards the main group, herding her away from Ronan.
Ronan's mouth quirked slightly as he watched. She didn't object to the handling, which meant Sheppard was trusted, but neither did she fully comply with his directive. Within two steps, she had slipped away from his touch and turned back to Ronan.
"Can you fight with unbladed sticks?"
He grinned, pleased by the way Sheppard turned with open dislike on his face. "I do better with bladed ones."
"We only use the unbladed ones in training," Teyla said and smiled. "But I'm sure that you will be more than comfortable with them, Prince."
She wasn't being ironic, either, which Ronan found unusual, along with the fact that she wasn't looking him over with the openly measuring gaze he was accustomed to receiving from witches. It intrigued him a little, made him curious - almost as curious as he was to see her limbering up with the men, exchanging quips and comments with some, but being ignored by others.
Accepted by some, but marked apart.
Ronan knew how that felt.
An older male walked onto the field and began organising the pairings for training, one against the other.
Ronan noted that Teyla moved towards Sheppard even before the man who was probably the Master of the Guard set them against each other, and that the Warlord Prince made a comment that earned him a sharp, amused glance before they took up positions in a separate enclosure.
He watched as the men began facing off against each other, curious to see what the Master of the Guard would say to him. And curious to know what was being said or thought of him. There were enough men who were measuring him up, surreptitiously or otherwise. He suspected they were taking stock of him as a warrior, as a Warlord Prince, and as another male in the court.
Here and there he heard whispers, mutters that carried to his ears on the breeze: 'slave', 'not a man', 'dangerous', 'dishonourable'. He let them build up, cold crystals of rage that collected inside, fuel to his movements and the anger he would let loose against them.
The Steward had informed Ronan that he had a week to determine what he wished to do for himself, during which time he'd be a guest in the household. The old laws and Protocol held sway here: if Ronan had trouble with anyone, then he was to come to see Beckett and not take matters into his own hands.
Nothing had been said about taking matters into weapons practice, though.
He sensed the approach of another man, and turned to meet the faded blue gaze of the Master of the Guard .
The Warlord Prince studied Ronan from a few yards away, his gaze wary but without the challenge Ronan had received from Sheppard.
"Ronan Dex?"
"Yes."
"Beckett said you might turn up," the man said, his voice timbre low and deep. "Steven Caldwell. Weapons?"
"War-blades, staves, and Jewel." He saw the nod of approval the man gave him at the answer.
"Jewel strength?"
"Red."
Dark brows rose. "Interesting. You any good at fighting?"
"Yes." He wasn't going to make modest protestations.
"Good, you can start with Lorne over there." Caldwell turned and roared, "Lorne!"
Lorne turned out to be one of the Warlords who'd been in the coach the previous evening, a few years older than Ronan, built tall and solid and confident. He eyed Ronan with caution but no fear, sure in his own fighting abilities. "Prince."
"Lord."
That was all the pleasantries they exchanged before the Master of the Guard set them sparring. Ten minutes if they could last that long, otherwise they were to pick themselves up from the dirt and start over again.
Ronan watched his opponent carefully, choosing not to exchange quips or insults the way others were. In a real battle, there was no time for witty repartee between opponents and barely enough time to react to the enemy's moves. And the Warlord had confidence in his own skills, he just didn't have enough skill - not against Ronan.
He wasn't sensing any animosity or resentment from the man; and he couldn't feel any dislike or distaste for being set up against a slave. So he was nice; he used the cold rage inside him sparingly, only allowing his blows to take on the slightest edge.
Two minutes later, Lorne was picking himself up with a shake and a smile that was only half-grudging. "I guess we should be glad that you didn't decide to fight us last night."
"Guess you should." Ronan bared his teeth.
To give the Warlord his due, he went back in with good will - and some new moves. This time, Ronan took a strike on the arm before delivering his opponent into the dirt.
Several of the other males had paused to watch Ronan spar, the Master of the Guard included. The third time Lorne landed on his butt, he shook his head and reached a hand up with a rueful smile. Ronan hauled him up, relieved that the Warlord wasn't harbouring any bad feelings about being beaten.
"You're good. Where'd you learn?"
The compliment was welcome, the question wasn't. "In a war," was all he said as the bad memories rose in him, thick enough to choke. He left it at that.
A quick, intent study, and the other man nodded, accepting that Ronan didn't want to talk about it now.
"Nothing teaches like the real thing," Caldwell observed from the side. "Are you still good to fight, Dex?"
He gave a simple nod, looking around at the handful of men who were still fighting in their pairs, unwilling to allow their opponent to get the better of them. Then he saw the woman and the man sparring in a separate enclosure.
Sheppard had some good moves on him, swift and vicious with the edge that a Warlord Prince brought to the fray. But the witch was holding him at bay, no less intense, and with a few moves of her own that compensated for her lack of height and build.
The savagery with which they danced was mesmerising, passion and violence that was at the heart of every Warlord Prince. Ronan felt drawn to it, both curious and challenged.
"They've gone overtime again," said Caldwell, exasperated. "Time!"
In near-perfect synchronisation, their staves slowed, came to rest in front of them, held. There was a gleam of laughter from hazel eye to dark before they bowed solemnly to each other.
"Sheppard, do you have enough energy to go up against Dex?"
Sheppard gave him a long, measuring look. Ronan wasn't sure if it was arrogance or honesty that marked the answer. "Sure."
Teyla moved to the edge of the enclosure, passing Sheppard as she did so. Standing at the gate, Ronan saw her hand brush across the other man's forearm in a light caress, saw the other man turn with heat in his eyes, quickly masked.
If she was aware of what she'd incited in the Warlord Prince, she ignored it and vaulted neatly over the barrier, leaving Sheppard to look to Ronan and bare his teeth in challenge.
Ronan entered the enclosure through the gate and closed it behind him. Then, ignoring Sheppard for a moment, he paced the width of the enclosure, measuring the space with his walk. Once he had that, he balanced on the balls of his feet and made himself ready for the attack.
The first attack was a flurry of blows, swift and uncompromising; Ronan deflected them, letting free the instincts he'd kept chained up in slavery.
What he hadn't been able to bring out against the Warlord, he had no qualms about bringing out against this Warlord Prince. Sheppard would be able to take it, and if not...
He struck fast and hard, watched the austere expression tense as the other man reassessed the situation and adjusted his technique accordingly. Blows to the right and the left were blocked from the left and the right. They circled each other, attuned to their enemy, psychic tendrils reaching out to gain any tactical advantage against the other.
Like the previous night where they had come unexpectedly upon each other, their instincts rose in lethal volatility. This was a dance at the heart of what and who they were, and Ronan felt the other man's anger and elation in the psychic currents that swirled around them, freed to impale itself on the vicious nature of a Warlord Prince.
The slammed up against each other, using more than just the staves to attack. By unspoken consent, Jewels were left out of the equation, but everything else was fair game.
Sheppard lashed out with one leg, and shoved Ronan back. Ronan ducked, turned, and blocked the follow-up blow, feeling his muscles burn at the contact.
Ronan wasn't so involved in the fight that he failed to notice the delicate psychic scent that began permeating the air of the yards. Her psychic scent. He'd had something to prove before; now he had someone to impress. A Queen with a psychic scent that drove him wild. It aroused him, driving his instincts higher, harder.
No pulled blows, no consideration for weakness. They were Warlord Princes, dangerous, aggressive, and uncompromising. They would break bone if given the chance.
They weren't given the chance.
He went in for a blow that was just short of lethal.
He received a blow that sent him sprawling - but the blow wasn't Sheppard's. Phantom fingers pushed him back in powerful feminine Craft, while, across the enclosure, Sheppard was also rigid, held in the anger of the Queen he served.
Slender hands rested at her sides, she had no need of physical strength; not with the gleam of the Red Jewel at her throat. "Do I want to know what's happening here?"
The Master of the Guard had balls - Ronan gave him that. He managed not to flinch as he met the cold gaze of an angry Queen. "Morning training, Lady."
"It looks more like morning slaughter to me," she said. Her gaze turned from one warrior to the other, and Ronan tried not to flinch beneath her gaze. Queen's rage was a terrifying thing. "This stops, now. You are not enemies and you won't try to make enemies of each other, either."
The invisible hands faded from Ronan's skin. he rubbed at the flesh of his throat as she turned on Caldwell and this time the man flinched. "And Prince, you should know better than to set two Warlord Princes up against each other."
"Yes, Lady."
The Queen swept one terrifying look over the whole group, and there wasn't a man who could look her in the eye for more than a second. Then she turned on her heel, took two strides away, and turned back.
Her anger was still cold enough to send chills down Ronan's spine as she looked from him to Sheppard. "Prince Sheppard, Prince Dex, I wish to see both of you after breakfast. And when I do, I want to see both of you whole and capable of walking. Is that understood?"
It was understood.
And she strode away, the loose trousers doing little to disguise the easy sway of her walk or her innate femininity.
Even in anger, she was exquisite.
Ronan watched her go, then caught John Sheppard's rueful thought, sent along a Sapphire spear-thread. *It's not generally a good idea to get her mad.*
*I can see why.*
Caldwell coughed lightly. "And that," he said, looking around the yard when the Queen had gone inside, "is why we thank the Darkness that males are the warriors."
He split them up again, harrying the warriors back to their man-on-man fights - or, in the case of the Black Widow - the man-on-woman fights. The training only went a little longer, with Caldwell pinpointing specific issues for specific warriors and watching the others.
"You're good," Caldwell said at the end of the training session. The older Warlord Prince had come around to look at the two men he'd set to train against Ronan, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. "Beckett said you might stick around."
"Thinking," said Ronan. "Only arrived last night."
"Which explains the audience to see the Queen." Blue eyes regarded Ronan sharply. "Have you ever been in service before?"
"Once." At Caldwell's look, he qualified. "Province Queen."
"What happened?"
Ronan paused, wary of giving the other man any leverage against him. When Caldwell looked up from collecting the staves together, he just said. "A war."
"Ambition or politics?"
"They're not the same?"
He received a huff of amusement in return and began copying Caldwell, tying up a bundle of staves for carrying in.
"Did you get any warrior training while you were in Belka Territory?" At Ronan's glare, the older man shrugged. "Don't be prickly, Prince. Beckett gave me the basics of your history so I'd get the information without it going through too many others first." Caldwell waved a hand at the retreating groups of men. "Most of these men know that you came back with the Queen from Belka. They know that you were a slave and she bought your contract. News travels around here whether in coven or in court.
"Frankly, I don't care if she took you out of Belka because you were a pretty face or a hard cock. But you're a damned good fighter - and you know it. A court can always do with more good warriors."
Which was true, but the tone of voice gave Ronan pause. "Going to war sometime soon?"
He was careful to keep his voice neutral, but Caldwell gave him a long hard look before answering in measured tones. "No, but we might be at war before too long."
That seemed to be all the explanation the older man was going to give Ronan. Caldwell returned to the sticks he was bundling, his fingers winding the ties with neat dexterity. "Go inside. Have breakfast. The Lady said she wanted to see you after and it's not a good idea to keep her waiting."
He skipped breakfast. He could feel the eyes on him, could hear the whispers about him, even as he paused at the entrance of the common eating hall. The younger males stared and the older males murmured, and Ronan didn't need to hear what they were saying to know that it was about him - and the ring he'd once worn.
The slurs were familiar - a pleasure slave was the highest in the hierarchy of slaves, but the most reviled among free males. Jealousy, Ronan had learned - jealousy and fear. By dehumanising the male brought to bed solely for pleasure, a free male could believe that he was superior to the slaves - that he need never fear being ringed and punished for nothing more than having a cock - and the balls and sass that came with it.
Ronan hadn't expected such things here in Atlantis territory.
Cold rage coated his insides, again, freezing his soul and giving him a predatory walk as he retraced his steps through the house back to his rooms.
The door slammed behind him and he paced across the scarlet-gold-black expanses of thick carpet like a tiger in a cage.
The room to which the Steward had ultimately shown him was elegantly furnished, not too sumptuous, but with an understated grace - like the Queen who ruled here. Ronan had ignored it last night, seeing only a bed in which to sleep without dreaming, without waking to be called to service another witch, without aching from the ring that chained him to the life he'd hated.
Last night, Atlantis had seemed like a dream.
The morning had changed nothing. He might be free in this Territory, released by the Queen, but the ring still dogged him.
He slammed his hands down on one of the side tables, pleased when it splintered beneath his blow.
They had no idea what it was like in Belka - none of them! They'd lived free all their lives, without fear of their Queen, without fear of pain or retaliation for being male. They looked at him and speculated without any understanding of what had been done to him, without any thought of who he was.
His hands curled into fists by his side, and he made for the door, needing to get out of the house, to find somewhere where there was open air and deep earth.
As he flung open the door, he stopped.
Leaning against the wall outside his room, Teyla regarded him with her head tilted to one side, dark eyes gleaming. "Were you going to see the Queen, Prince Dex, or just going out?" She looked as though she had all day to wait.
Ronan smiled, brief and tight. He'd almost forgotten the Queen's injunction in his anger. It didn't change much, he'd just listen to what she had to say and get out afterwards.
If he didn't forget himself and give in to the hunger that flowed through him when he looked at her: the response of a dark-jewelled male to a darker-jewelled Queen whom he knew was capable of handling his strength. If she'd been attractive before she gave him his freedom, she was enthralling now. The morning had proved that.
To distract himself, he challenged the Black Widow.
"I thought you weren't watching me."
She smiled, ignoring the challenge but answering the question. "I wasn't when you asked the question. However, Elizabeth has asked for your presence."
Ronan nearly growled at her. Court. Where he'd be stared and eyed by the other males, distrusted and unwanted, and quite distinctly made to feel like an outsider.
Which he was.
He was tempted to storm past the Widow and ignore the summons, but imperatives older than his slavery reminded him of the duty he owed a Queen. More specifically, they reminded him of the duty he owed the Queen who'd bought his freedom.
Everything had a price. And a debt should always be paid. Ronan had learned those tenets as a boy, he could not walk away from them as a man.
He could not walk away from this Queen. Not yet.
Everything has a price.
He didn't dare ask if the price was asked of his duty, or if the price was asked of his honour.
Ronan swallowed his pride and indicated the corridor.
"Lead the way."
--
To Part Six
PAIRING: Elizabeth Weir/Ronan Dex
RATING: R
NOTES: It's slowing down; the next few parts are going to be more developing-action oriented. I hope I'm not infodumping too fast, because I feel like I am.
Summary of this chapter? "Ronan and Sheppard fight. Elizabeth really isn't pleased."
Incidentally, neither this section nor any of the previous sections have been beta'd: if there's anyone out there willing to hazard beta'ing this monster of a crackfic, drop me a comment. You will need to have read the Black Jewels Trilogy and The Invisible Ring by Anne Bishop or else a lot of what I'm going through won't make sense.
Part Four is found here if you missed it.
To Serve A Queen - Part Five
He saw the wary looks the other men gave him as he walked out into the yard in the cool light of dawn.
"Up early, I see," said a cool voice at his shoulder.
Ronan whirled to see the Black Widow emerging from the doorway behind him and fought down the urge to back away. He would challenge any male here, but a witch who could shatter his mind with a Tangled Web was a very different matter. "Are you watching me?"
Her amusement grew. "No." She stepped past him, the loose cut of her trousers flowing lightly around her form and hinting at muscular legs beneath. Black Widow she might be, but she was clearly not indolent. "Are you intending to join in with the morning training?" Dark eyes regarded him without ploy or coyness, just a direct question.
He sensed the mood of the practice yards changing as he stood there, looking down at her. He knew that somewhere out in the array of men, another Warlord Prince was approaching, coming to make his presence and possession known. That coming storm gave him the audacity to cover his fear, flash a grin at her, and ask, "Are you?"
One eyebrow quirked. "Of course."
She made it sound so natural.
Ronan looked her over with the eye of a trained warrior. She was small and trim, her arms were lean and well-muscled and the look in her eyes warned him that she'd be a dangerous opponent - as if being a dark-jewelled Black Widow wasn't enough to make a woman dangerous.
At least she had a sense of humour.
"Teyla." Both of them looked over at the man who came up beside her, feet planted wide, his hands clenched around a pair of unbladed sticks.
Ronan met the flat, hard gaze of the Warlord Prince who'd tried to confront him last night. "Prince."
The man eyed him. "I don't believe we've been introduced. John Sheppard."
"Ronan Dex." He measured up the other Warlord Prince, well aware that he was being similarly summed up.
"I invited Ronan to join in with the weapons practise," Teyla said, ignoring the undercurrents between the two men. "He was trained as a guard at the last court he served in."
He was impressed with the distinction she made between the court he'd served in and the courts he'd slaved in. His slave history might be common knowledge after last night's interview, it might not. But she had effectively given Sheppard notice that any other commentary on Ronan's background was unacceptable.
Whether Sheppard would be ruled by that was another matter.
However, the other male only gave him a challenging look. "Is that so? You won't mind sparring against some of the men, then." And placing his hand firmly in the small of Teyla's back, Sheppard drew the woman back towards the main group, herding her away from Ronan.
Ronan's mouth quirked slightly as he watched. She didn't object to the handling, which meant Sheppard was trusted, but neither did she fully comply with his directive. Within two steps, she had slipped away from his touch and turned back to Ronan.
"Can you fight with unbladed sticks?"
He grinned, pleased by the way Sheppard turned with open dislike on his face. "I do better with bladed ones."
"We only use the unbladed ones in training," Teyla said and smiled. "But I'm sure that you will be more than comfortable with them, Prince."
She wasn't being ironic, either, which Ronan found unusual, along with the fact that she wasn't looking him over with the openly measuring gaze he was accustomed to receiving from witches. It intrigued him a little, made him curious - almost as curious as he was to see her limbering up with the men, exchanging quips and comments with some, but being ignored by others.
Accepted by some, but marked apart.
Ronan knew how that felt.
An older male walked onto the field and began organising the pairings for training, one against the other.
Ronan noted that Teyla moved towards Sheppard even before the man who was probably the Master of the Guard set them against each other, and that the Warlord Prince made a comment that earned him a sharp, amused glance before they took up positions in a separate enclosure.
He watched as the men began facing off against each other, curious to see what the Master of the Guard would say to him. And curious to know what was being said or thought of him. There were enough men who were measuring him up, surreptitiously or otherwise. He suspected they were taking stock of him as a warrior, as a Warlord Prince, and as another male in the court.
Here and there he heard whispers, mutters that carried to his ears on the breeze: 'slave', 'not a man', 'dangerous', 'dishonourable'. He let them build up, cold crystals of rage that collected inside, fuel to his movements and the anger he would let loose against them.
The Steward had informed Ronan that he had a week to determine what he wished to do for himself, during which time he'd be a guest in the household. The old laws and Protocol held sway here: if Ronan had trouble with anyone, then he was to come to see Beckett and not take matters into his own hands.
Nothing had been said about taking matters into weapons practice, though.
He sensed the approach of another man, and turned to meet the faded blue gaze of the Master of the Guard .
The Warlord Prince studied Ronan from a few yards away, his gaze wary but without the challenge Ronan had received from Sheppard.
"Ronan Dex?"
"Yes."
"Beckett said you might turn up," the man said, his voice timbre low and deep. "Steven Caldwell. Weapons?"
"War-blades, staves, and Jewel." He saw the nod of approval the man gave him at the answer.
"Jewel strength?"
"Red."
Dark brows rose. "Interesting. You any good at fighting?"
"Yes." He wasn't going to make modest protestations.
"Good, you can start with Lorne over there." Caldwell turned and roared, "Lorne!"
Lorne turned out to be one of the Warlords who'd been in the coach the previous evening, a few years older than Ronan, built tall and solid and confident. He eyed Ronan with caution but no fear, sure in his own fighting abilities. "Prince."
"Lord."
That was all the pleasantries they exchanged before the Master of the Guard set them sparring. Ten minutes if they could last that long, otherwise they were to pick themselves up from the dirt and start over again.
Ronan watched his opponent carefully, choosing not to exchange quips or insults the way others were. In a real battle, there was no time for witty repartee between opponents and barely enough time to react to the enemy's moves. And the Warlord had confidence in his own skills, he just didn't have enough skill - not against Ronan.
He wasn't sensing any animosity or resentment from the man; and he couldn't feel any dislike or distaste for being set up against a slave. So he was nice; he used the cold rage inside him sparingly, only allowing his blows to take on the slightest edge.
Two minutes later, Lorne was picking himself up with a shake and a smile that was only half-grudging. "I guess we should be glad that you didn't decide to fight us last night."
"Guess you should." Ronan bared his teeth.
To give the Warlord his due, he went back in with good will - and some new moves. This time, Ronan took a strike on the arm before delivering his opponent into the dirt.
Several of the other males had paused to watch Ronan spar, the Master of the Guard included. The third time Lorne landed on his butt, he shook his head and reached a hand up with a rueful smile. Ronan hauled him up, relieved that the Warlord wasn't harbouring any bad feelings about being beaten.
"You're good. Where'd you learn?"
The compliment was welcome, the question wasn't. "In a war," was all he said as the bad memories rose in him, thick enough to choke. He left it at that.
A quick, intent study, and the other man nodded, accepting that Ronan didn't want to talk about it now.
"Nothing teaches like the real thing," Caldwell observed from the side. "Are you still good to fight, Dex?"
He gave a simple nod, looking around at the handful of men who were still fighting in their pairs, unwilling to allow their opponent to get the better of them. Then he saw the woman and the man sparring in a separate enclosure.
Sheppard had some good moves on him, swift and vicious with the edge that a Warlord Prince brought to the fray. But the witch was holding him at bay, no less intense, and with a few moves of her own that compensated for her lack of height and build.
The savagery with which they danced was mesmerising, passion and violence that was at the heart of every Warlord Prince. Ronan felt drawn to it, both curious and challenged.
"They've gone overtime again," said Caldwell, exasperated. "Time!"
In near-perfect synchronisation, their staves slowed, came to rest in front of them, held. There was a gleam of laughter from hazel eye to dark before they bowed solemnly to each other.
"Sheppard, do you have enough energy to go up against Dex?"
Sheppard gave him a long, measuring look. Ronan wasn't sure if it was arrogance or honesty that marked the answer. "Sure."
Teyla moved to the edge of the enclosure, passing Sheppard as she did so. Standing at the gate, Ronan saw her hand brush across the other man's forearm in a light caress, saw the other man turn with heat in his eyes, quickly masked.
If she was aware of what she'd incited in the Warlord Prince, she ignored it and vaulted neatly over the barrier, leaving Sheppard to look to Ronan and bare his teeth in challenge.
Ronan entered the enclosure through the gate and closed it behind him. Then, ignoring Sheppard for a moment, he paced the width of the enclosure, measuring the space with his walk. Once he had that, he balanced on the balls of his feet and made himself ready for the attack.
The first attack was a flurry of blows, swift and uncompromising; Ronan deflected them, letting free the instincts he'd kept chained up in slavery.
What he hadn't been able to bring out against the Warlord, he had no qualms about bringing out against this Warlord Prince. Sheppard would be able to take it, and if not...
He struck fast and hard, watched the austere expression tense as the other man reassessed the situation and adjusted his technique accordingly. Blows to the right and the left were blocked from the left and the right. They circled each other, attuned to their enemy, psychic tendrils reaching out to gain any tactical advantage against the other.
Like the previous night where they had come unexpectedly upon each other, their instincts rose in lethal volatility. This was a dance at the heart of what and who they were, and Ronan felt the other man's anger and elation in the psychic currents that swirled around them, freed to impale itself on the vicious nature of a Warlord Prince.
The slammed up against each other, using more than just the staves to attack. By unspoken consent, Jewels were left out of the equation, but everything else was fair game.
Sheppard lashed out with one leg, and shoved Ronan back. Ronan ducked, turned, and blocked the follow-up blow, feeling his muscles burn at the contact.
Ronan wasn't so involved in the fight that he failed to notice the delicate psychic scent that began permeating the air of the yards. Her psychic scent. He'd had something to prove before; now he had someone to impress. A Queen with a psychic scent that drove him wild. It aroused him, driving his instincts higher, harder.
No pulled blows, no consideration for weakness. They were Warlord Princes, dangerous, aggressive, and uncompromising. They would break bone if given the chance.
They weren't given the chance.
He went in for a blow that was just short of lethal.
He received a blow that sent him sprawling - but the blow wasn't Sheppard's. Phantom fingers pushed him back in powerful feminine Craft, while, across the enclosure, Sheppard was also rigid, held in the anger of the Queen he served.
Slender hands rested at her sides, she had no need of physical strength; not with the gleam of the Red Jewel at her throat. "Do I want to know what's happening here?"
The Master of the Guard had balls - Ronan gave him that. He managed not to flinch as he met the cold gaze of an angry Queen. "Morning training, Lady."
"It looks more like morning slaughter to me," she said. Her gaze turned from one warrior to the other, and Ronan tried not to flinch beneath her gaze. Queen's rage was a terrifying thing. "This stops, now. You are not enemies and you won't try to make enemies of each other, either."
The invisible hands faded from Ronan's skin. he rubbed at the flesh of his throat as she turned on Caldwell and this time the man flinched. "And Prince, you should know better than to set two Warlord Princes up against each other."
"Yes, Lady."
The Queen swept one terrifying look over the whole group, and there wasn't a man who could look her in the eye for more than a second. Then she turned on her heel, took two strides away, and turned back.
Her anger was still cold enough to send chills down Ronan's spine as she looked from him to Sheppard. "Prince Sheppard, Prince Dex, I wish to see both of you after breakfast. And when I do, I want to see both of you whole and capable of walking. Is that understood?"
It was understood.
And she strode away, the loose trousers doing little to disguise the easy sway of her walk or her innate femininity.
Even in anger, she was exquisite.
Ronan watched her go, then caught John Sheppard's rueful thought, sent along a Sapphire spear-thread. *It's not generally a good idea to get her mad.*
*I can see why.*
Caldwell coughed lightly. "And that," he said, looking around the yard when the Queen had gone inside, "is why we thank the Darkness that males are the warriors."
He split them up again, harrying the warriors back to their man-on-man fights - or, in the case of the Black Widow - the man-on-woman fights. The training only went a little longer, with Caldwell pinpointing specific issues for specific warriors and watching the others.
"You're good," Caldwell said at the end of the training session. The older Warlord Prince had come around to look at the two men he'd set to train against Ronan, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. "Beckett said you might stick around."
"Thinking," said Ronan. "Only arrived last night."
"Which explains the audience to see the Queen." Blue eyes regarded Ronan sharply. "Have you ever been in service before?"
"Once." At Caldwell's look, he qualified. "Province Queen."
"What happened?"
Ronan paused, wary of giving the other man any leverage against him. When Caldwell looked up from collecting the staves together, he just said. "A war."
"Ambition or politics?"
"They're not the same?"
He received a huff of amusement in return and began copying Caldwell, tying up a bundle of staves for carrying in.
"Did you get any warrior training while you were in Belka Territory?" At Ronan's glare, the older man shrugged. "Don't be prickly, Prince. Beckett gave me the basics of your history so I'd get the information without it going through too many others first." Caldwell waved a hand at the retreating groups of men. "Most of these men know that you came back with the Queen from Belka. They know that you were a slave and she bought your contract. News travels around here whether in coven or in court.
"Frankly, I don't care if she took you out of Belka because you were a pretty face or a hard cock. But you're a damned good fighter - and you know it. A court can always do with more good warriors."
Which was true, but the tone of voice gave Ronan pause. "Going to war sometime soon?"
He was careful to keep his voice neutral, but Caldwell gave him a long hard look before answering in measured tones. "No, but we might be at war before too long."
That seemed to be all the explanation the older man was going to give Ronan. Caldwell returned to the sticks he was bundling, his fingers winding the ties with neat dexterity. "Go inside. Have breakfast. The Lady said she wanted to see you after and it's not a good idea to keep her waiting."
He skipped breakfast. He could feel the eyes on him, could hear the whispers about him, even as he paused at the entrance of the common eating hall. The younger males stared and the older males murmured, and Ronan didn't need to hear what they were saying to know that it was about him - and the ring he'd once worn.
The slurs were familiar - a pleasure slave was the highest in the hierarchy of slaves, but the most reviled among free males. Jealousy, Ronan had learned - jealousy and fear. By dehumanising the male brought to bed solely for pleasure, a free male could believe that he was superior to the slaves - that he need never fear being ringed and punished for nothing more than having a cock - and the balls and sass that came with it.
Ronan hadn't expected such things here in Atlantis territory.
Cold rage coated his insides, again, freezing his soul and giving him a predatory walk as he retraced his steps through the house back to his rooms.
The door slammed behind him and he paced across the scarlet-gold-black expanses of thick carpet like a tiger in a cage.
The room to which the Steward had ultimately shown him was elegantly furnished, not too sumptuous, but with an understated grace - like the Queen who ruled here. Ronan had ignored it last night, seeing only a bed in which to sleep without dreaming, without waking to be called to service another witch, without aching from the ring that chained him to the life he'd hated.
Last night, Atlantis had seemed like a dream.
The morning had changed nothing. He might be free in this Territory, released by the Queen, but the ring still dogged him.
He slammed his hands down on one of the side tables, pleased when it splintered beneath his blow.
They had no idea what it was like in Belka - none of them! They'd lived free all their lives, without fear of their Queen, without fear of pain or retaliation for being male. They looked at him and speculated without any understanding of what had been done to him, without any thought of who he was.
His hands curled into fists by his side, and he made for the door, needing to get out of the house, to find somewhere where there was open air and deep earth.
As he flung open the door, he stopped.
Leaning against the wall outside his room, Teyla regarded him with her head tilted to one side, dark eyes gleaming. "Were you going to see the Queen, Prince Dex, or just going out?" She looked as though she had all day to wait.
Ronan smiled, brief and tight. He'd almost forgotten the Queen's injunction in his anger. It didn't change much, he'd just listen to what she had to say and get out afterwards.
If he didn't forget himself and give in to the hunger that flowed through him when he looked at her: the response of a dark-jewelled male to a darker-jewelled Queen whom he knew was capable of handling his strength. If she'd been attractive before she gave him his freedom, she was enthralling now. The morning had proved that.
To distract himself, he challenged the Black Widow.
"I thought you weren't watching me."
She smiled, ignoring the challenge but answering the question. "I wasn't when you asked the question. However, Elizabeth has asked for your presence."
Ronan nearly growled at her. Court. Where he'd be stared and eyed by the other males, distrusted and unwanted, and quite distinctly made to feel like an outsider.
Which he was.
He was tempted to storm past the Widow and ignore the summons, but imperatives older than his slavery reminded him of the duty he owed a Queen. More specifically, they reminded him of the duty he owed the Queen who'd bought his freedom.
Everything had a price. And a debt should always be paid. Ronan had learned those tenets as a boy, he could not walk away from them as a man.
He could not walk away from this Queen. Not yet.
Everything has a price.
He didn't dare ask if the price was asked of his duty, or if the price was asked of his honour.
Ronan swallowed his pride and indicated the corridor.
"Lead the way."
--
To Part Six
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Cool.
:)
I'm going to have to go find these books at some point now, because you've got me intrigued. I'm also very curious to know what exactly the relationship between Elizabeth and John is here.
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I recommend the series.
Elizabeth and John's relationship will become a bit clearer in the next section. Which will be posted sometime in the next couple of days. Possibly.
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Otherwise, I really should gather up all the Weir/Dex fic of which I know and link to it. Somewhere. :)
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*is tempted to ask if you'd still love me if I wrote Lorne/Teyla*
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Oh wow. I would love a Lorne/Teyla fic. Does that make me a bad shipper? Hee.
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You know, I used to be an OTP-er until I got to Atlantis...
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Are you familiar with the realm of the Black Jewels Trilogy?
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*waits eagerly for the next part*
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