The First, the Oldest, the… Wisest?
Black Lodge, 2nd January 2003
Harry, this Jaffa is Sai’yo of Chulak. He does not believe in the supremacy and divinity of the Goa’uld, and I have been hiding his private explorations for knowledge from Apophis, so did Bra’tac before me. He is very knowledgeable in Goa’uld technology and tactics, as the result, as well as other matters. He fights not by frontal physical attacks, however, unlike most Jaffa. He is 200 years old and has just received his last prim’ta. He may yet live for 15-17 more years as his prim’ta is younger than it would be advisable for a Jaffa in the active armed forces. He can no longer serve not because of that, however. Some Goa’uld underling caught him observing the technology that Apophis has just had me rest from a new planet. Apophis ordered me to torture him for information then kill him. I took the chance to tell him about you and give him knowledge of your language. He has pledged his life to you. Remind him of it and curtail his access to technology, information and knowledge as necessary. This is Teal’c of Chulak writing.
The report, penned hurriedly on a piece of parchment with what looks like some self-inking quill, which somebody – most likely Hermione, possibly Luna, maybe Susan – apparently contributed to Teal’c’s mokeskin pouch, is pinned on one corner to the body of… Sai’yo… with the stasis disk.
Like a long, macabre birthday note on a birthday present of some sort. And the “birthday present” is currently laid out on the bed that belonged to Teal’c when he was here.
Well, the first Jaffa that I unearthed, and he’s a male, taller, far older version of Hermione Granger. Great.
He even has rather bushy hair, though his is grey and cropped short. And he doesn’t look a day over forty – a youthful-looking forty – except for his hair.
A very fit forty, at that.
Huh. Fifteen to seventeen years of living with two healthy, energetic, overly curious and bold Hermiones… and that is if I did not manage to find a replacement for the prim’ta for a Jaffa.
Might see a century or more with two Hermiones, if I managed.
And with my “saving people thing” in play….
I shudder. A century with two Hermiones, here we go.
“Merlin, save me,” I mutter, then tap the stasis disk with the tip of my magically charged finger to deactivate it.
The note and disk vanish – possibly into Odi’s keeping – as the male Hermione begins to breathe slowly in and out, as if sleeping or unconscious.
But if Teal’c was in a hurry and told this one about me and used the English memory crystal on him before putting him into stasis, he wouldn’t be unconscious before delivery, right? There wouldn’t be any time! I didn’t find any knock-out wound on him, either.
Ha. Subterfuge. This one is more dangerous than Hermione in an ordinary day, then. Awesome….
I spread the magical charge to my entire hand, instead of just a finger, and raise it a little in preparation to defend myself as I sing-song, “Waky waky, buddy. You are on Earth, now. I believe our mutual acquaintance calls it ‘Tau’ri’. Come on. I’ll zap you awake if you don’t wake up by yourself.”
I hurriedly tiptoe backwards, after that, to give myself more space to fight.
Just in time. The blogue’s eyes open slowly, warily, revealing a pair of deep, dark blue irises. And then he turns his face to the right, and our eyes meet.
“Hello!” I muster up my best cheerful voice. “Welcome to Earth. I’m Harry. What’s your name?”
Well, contrary to his slow beginning, he draws a sharp breath and rises to his feet the second he hears my name, and… kneels on the floor beside the bed.
I let out a resigned sigh.
“My lord,” he murmurs in a surprisingly pleasant, rather high-pitched voice, with his head bowed and his eyes apparently directed to the carpeted floor.
Not this again….
“Didn’t you hear my name? Use it,” I grump. “The bed’s there for a reason, too. Get up, get up. Sit there or on the chair or wherever. No kneeling, got it? And look at me when you’re saying something to me, too, please.”
The Jaffa bows low in his kneeling position, in response, then gets up slowly, fluidly, before backing away to the bed and taking a seat on its edge… with his eyes still lowered. Oh, well.
Eh, I take my assessment back, by the way. Movement-wise, he’s not a day over thirty, if not younger.
Lucky sod.
“Now, what’s your name?” I repeat, while allowing the magical charge to dissipate from my hand, which is now tingling rather severely from the prolonged soaking.
“Sai’yo, Lord Harry; Sai’yo of Chulak,” is his answer, delivered in a measured tone that matches the unreadable light in his gaze as he finally meets my eyes again.
“Drop the ‘Lord’ and you’re fine, Sai’yo. By the way, what did Teal’c tell you about me?” I prod carefully. – We’re pretty much tiptoeing round each other, it feels, but I can’t help it, and it seems that he doesn’t want to risk it. Funny: a strong someone who is taller than I am and undoubtably more skilled, not wanting to risk it, but that’s the fact, and I find myself somehow appreciating it.
And, “That you are a powerful but kind and considerate lord who would risk much for his people… Harry,” he says, just as carefully. “He also promised that I would live out the remainder of my life on Tau’ri in peace should I pledge myself to you.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “And do you want peace?” I emphasise the last part, which is very important to me, given his skills and also given his upbringing and environment prior to coming here. “Because there is nobody here for you to fight, though there are lots of knowledge and information you can learn if you swear you don’t mean harm with what you know.”
“What about your enemies, my lord?” His gaze is even more unreadable, now, like a shuttered pair of round windows.
The other eyebrow joins the first high on my forehead. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘lord’?” I retort. “And fighting my enemies is not for you. It’s my own business. Teal’c promised you’d live your life peacefully here, and so you shall.”
He bows his head, then looks back into my eyes with an even-more-shuttered expression. “What about punishment, my lord?”
Oh. Oh. Oh. He was bating me! He wanted to know what I’d do to him for something as simple as not calling me Harry as I wanted, before he’d do something bigger.
Wily, clever, careful sod. No wonder he lives to be two centuries, in his line of work and with his nosiness always turned on.
“What about it?” I return in my best casual tone.
Aaand, he seems to realise that I have realised what he actually meant, because he seems to relax a little and says, “Nothing, my lord.”
But damn the “lord” part. If he doesn’t lose it soon from his vocabulary when addressing me whether I’m there or not, I’m going to prank him till he caves in. George will gladly help me, I bet.
I tell him so, in the same faux-casual tone.
And he smiles to that, a little, with both his lips and his eyes.
All right. Challenge accepted.
And I take back my assessment of his similarity to Hermione, too. Because, like this, he seems to be a blend between Hermione and George Weasley.
Scary.
But… fun.