The Lost

Chapter Eleven: Quicksilver

Quicksilver dreamed, and in his dreams he walked through blue green corridors lit from above, light pouring in from skylights far up on the side of white towers. Quicksilver dreamed, and in his dream he was looking for something. It was just there, surely. If only he could remember what it was he was seeking.

It might be just around this corner, or down this corridor through heavy doors ornamented with bronze, or past these windows of stained glass. It might be here. It might be just there. If he could remember what it was.

In his dreams, Quicksilver walked Atlantis.

Up a short flight of stairs, and he stood in a huge room where the Stargate waited, glittering with the cold sheen of naquadah, just as the Ancients made it. But it was not what he sought. That was further. Somewhere.

Up another flight of stairs, and consoles beckoned. He could step up to them, could do something.

She stood on the walkway beside him, a slender dark haired woman in a red shirt, and her eyes were on him. Rodney, she said, Wake up.

What?

Her eyes did not leave his, urgent and kind at once. Wake up, Rodney. You're dreaming.

If I just look at the consoles I can see the dialing address.

She shook her head gravely. So. Wake up, Rodney.

Quicksilver woke.

Across the room they shared, his brother slept in his alcove, the lights dimmed for sleeping.

Quicksilver sat up, a curious sense of unreality about him. He had dreamed. He had dreamed of some strange place, and of a queen with dark eyes who spoke to him, who told him within a dream that he slumbered and forbade him the consoles. She had forbidden him. He was sure of that, for all that she had stood quietly by.

He reached for the pipette of chilled water that stood by and drank greedily. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He felt it in every bone in his body.

Dust stirred, rolled over, his eyes hooded with sleep. “Are you well, my brother?”

“I dreamed of Atlantis,” Quicksilver said. His hands shook on the pipette, and he stared at them. Why should he shake? What was wrong?

“What did you dream?” Dust asked.

“I dreamed of a queen,” Quicksilver said slowly. “She spoke to me.”

“Dark haired or fair?” Dust asked.

“Dark,” Quicksilver said. “Dark haired. Small. Slight, I mean.” He pressed his hands together, searching. From somewhere he dredged up words. “Dr. Weir.”

“She Who Is a Strong Place,” Dust said. “You must have known her.”

Quicksilver blinked. “How could I have?” he asked. “You said that she had been dead for years, but I was only captured a few weeks ago. How could I have known her?”

Dust’s mouth opened and closed, an expression of dismay crossing his face. “Well, obviously not. It must have been someone else.”

“Yes, obviously,” Quicksilver said sharply.

And yet. There was something about the way Dust turned from him, something in the dream that made his scalp prickle.

“Do you remember more?” Dust asked.

“No,” Quicksilver said. After all, there was no need to say he had nearly seen the gate address for Atlantis. There would be time enough to tell him later.