Teyla left Atlantis about a year after Ronon’s death. It wasn’t anything dramatic, it was just her time to go. And truth be told, she wasn’t ever the same after he died.
She lived on the mainland with her people, and about three years down the line I leaned that she was engaged. I went to visit her soon after I heard the news. Her house was practical and uncluttered, almost bare, and she let in only enough light so that we could function.
She smiled as she handed me a cup of tea and asked how I was.
“Oh, you know, same old stuff. Saving the galaxy once a week.”
She smiled at that, but I could tell it was forced.
“Well, what about you? I hear you’re engaged?”
She looked away, as if I’d brought up something frivolous, then seemed to realize her reaction and looked to me with another forced smile. “Gavin.”
I nodded, not really knowing what to say. I’d forgotten how quiet she’d become. “He’s got a nice name, I’ll give him that much.” I narrowed my eyes at her, trying to tease out the Teyla I knew and loved. “He’s got excellent taste, too.”
The smile was real this time and in the dim light I thought I saw her cheeks color a little. I shut up, waiting for her to speak further.
She rose and ladled us some soup. I thanked her and we ate in silence for a few minutes before the silence got to me and I couldn’t help but smirk in memory of many similar moments I’d spent with Ronon. The silence never seemed to bother him, and my attempts at conversation were often met with the briefest answers possible. “So you two set a date yet?”
She was chewing on the inside of her lower lip, subconsciously thumbing her ring. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before looking to me and I knew I’d stepped into something sticky. She spoke as if she chose her words carefully, justifying her view. “Gavin is... a very kind man.” She fed me a practiced line with practiced happiness. “I am very lucky to have him.”
I arched a brow. “But...?”
She shrugged a little, leaning back in her chair, looking out the window at the people milling by on the street, but I could tell by the way her face was turned that her gaze was on the distant mountains. When she looked back to me, something had shifted in her eyes and she looked older. She’d shed her mask and now looked to me as the old friend I was, her voice deepening into a confiding tone. “Try as I might, I cannot set a date.”
“Has he been pressuring you to?”
She shook her head immediately, wrapping her hands around her cup of tea. “No, however we have been engaged for almost a year.” She looked up from her tea. “Most Athosians wed within the first few months of engagement.”
I nodded, understanding, for I’d never been in a relationship where I’d considered marriage. I decided to be bold. “Do you love the guy?”
She blinked in surprise, cocking her head a little. “Of course.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She looked out the window to the mountains again, her hands still cupping her mug. A child laughed out on the street and a gust of wind fluttered the violet curtains, rattling the vase dried wildflowers on the windowsill. “It is just that...” she trailed off, her eyes unmoving.
“...He’s not Ronon,” I finished for her. She tore her gaze from the distant wilds and the aged, somber brown of her eyes that met mine made me still. I’d taken a risk by mentioning him, but the chiseled truth in her gaze told me that I’d never been more right. The wind tossed a bit of her hair over her shoulder and she glanced down to where the lock came to rest against her left breast, above her heart. Her answer was quiet, almost whispered. “No, he is not.”
I drew a deep breath and she slowly locked eyes with me again, reading my empathy. “Yeah.” I sighed. “I miss him, too.”
She nodded lethargically, her gaze glassy as she drifted somewhere distant. I knew she missed him more than I did – more than I ever could. He was more than just a comrade to her. They had a bond I always struggled to understand, and always failed to. But I knew from the moment she looked at me, helpless and lost as he lay dying, that she loved him. And I knew now as she looked back to the mountains in the distance, her eyes lingering on the wildflowers for a heartbeat, that he would forever be to her what a dream is to the dreamer. She would always wonder what could have been, and she would always treasure what they knew, what they had together.
He was a strong wind that could never be harnessed, and you never knew where it would blow from next. Hell, even she didn’t know, but that added to his mystique. That kept him unobtainable, like the myth from which he arose. He was a Runner, swift and sure, and the wind was ever at his back. I just never paused to notice how gently he blew for her, and how she could change the course of his torrent without a whisper.
And I knew the wind was at his back now, wherever he may be, roaming the ranges and haunting the hills as he once did, untamed, but this time he wasn’t hunted; he was free.
He’d forever be a ghost in her heart, our Strong Wind. He’d forever be the cry of the wolf, haunting the wilderness of the land and the heart alike. He’d forever be her wild frontier.
A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye, disappearing into the shadows of the dim light.
I sighed, wishing I had the grace with words that she did, and the wisdom to go with it. “I can’t tell you what to do, Teyla.”
She wiped at her cheekbone when another tear escaped.
“But I know he’d want you to be happy... whatever you decide.”
I rose and crossed to her and she stood, falling into my arms with a hushed sob and a whispered “I know.”
As I held her, I realized that I was probably the only one who could ever understand, for I was the only one who ever knew them both well-enough to have glimpsed what they’d shared.
I didn’t offer her any more advice, for I had no more to give. The choice was hers and hers alone. As I left I promised that I’d always be here if she needed to talk and she gave me a grateful smile and a thank-you.
I don’t know what she decided, but the last time I saw her was as I began to close her door that day as the sun set. She stood still as a statue, a gust of wind playing with her hair, her gaze on the beckoning wilds, just out of reach.
