||[Feb. 13th, 2006|01:48 pm]
Specialist Ronon Dex
1) What is one thing you have learned from your past?
Only real thing I’ve learned from my past is that home is where you make it.
My people are great storytellers...we recorded our history, but above all else, oral tradition was considered the most important form of history on Setita. Stories and legends were told in story beads...strands of wooden beads, each one carved into an image from the story. Children would get them from their parents, and adults would keep them to remember the fables of their own family. Every great event in our history was usually recorded in a set of story beads.
For me, home used to be Setita...it used to be going through my paces at the training grounds, drinking with my fellows at the local tavern and making bets to see how long it would take us to get kicked out for being unruly. It was quiet nights at the barracks, exchanging stories and lewd jokes. I still remember them...but I haven’t told one since the day the Wraith took me. Some of those jokes and stories even had their own set of beads.
After I was turned loose by the Wraith, I couldn’t stay anywhere for any length of time. Home became the old stories, the memories...I made a set of my own beads over time, telling my story. It took seven years, but the beads were finished, wood polished to a shine by restless nights spent rubbing them smooth with a stone, and simply running my fingers over them time and time again.
But unlike traditional Setitan story beads, mine are blank. I carved no images into them...but I still know what every single bead represents. I kept them blank because I lived in those beads...and like any man who locks his front door behind him, I kept my story to myself.
Now on Atlantis, I feel closer to having a home than I have since the Wraith culled Setita. And yet...I still wear my story beads all the time...I get asked about them by the Ethosian children. I’ve been to the mainland a few times...I’m teaching some of them how to make their own. When they ask why my beads are empty, I tell them all the same thing.
I tell them that some stories are never meant to be told.
2) Describe a dream that you've had. How did the dream make you feel?
He woke without a sound, the rapid step of his own feet pounding the ground echoing in his ears. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t even blink as he waited for the threat to pass.
It took a full two minutes before he remembered there was no threat. Not on Atlantis.
He finally relaxed, rubbing his hands over his features, slick with the cold sweat of his favorite nightmare. For a moment, he guiltily luxuriated in the mattress beneath his back...softer than the solid earth he sometimes found a night’s rest on. The air in his quarters was cool, dark, and quiet in an artificial manner that comforted him far more than he cared to admit.
The Wraith ship was never so still...so calm. Plus the air was always dry and cold, not filled with the gentle moisture of the sea.
Realizing finally that he was shivering in his own sweat, Ronon flipped off the covers and rolled out of bed, ambling into his bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, just gazing at his reflection. His dark features were ashen, and his eyes seemed to glow, set off by the dark rings testifying to his sleepless nights.
Add to that the glistening sheen of sweat even now forming a bead of perspiration on the end of his nose and the fact he was still catching his breath, and he looked like he’d just run a marathon, as Colonel Shepard would say. He’d explained a marathon to Ronon...and Ronon knew he was right.
Fitting, because in his dream, he’d been doing just that.
Pushing away from the sink, Ronon shed the lightweight pants he slept in and turned on his shower, stepping inside. He let the water beat down on his skin, facing away from the spray to let it run down his back...hot as he could stand it, hot enough to burn. It was the only way he could get the icy lump of fear in his gut to melt, the cold pinprick of the tracking node to fade from deep beneath his skin.
He still couldn’t stop the Wraith from chasing him, even in his dreams. Before, there’d been no nightmares, just blissful *nothing* in the rare moments he stopped to rest. Now, he didn’t even have that. He was relatively safe in Atlantis...he wasn’t running, and he had his cloak of anger and violence to protect him when he was awake.
But sleep...that belonged to them now. It was the only place they could get to him...he fought them in the light, and in the dark they hunted him again.
No matter how many nights went by...he was still running in his head. And he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to stop.