Bra'tac Alphabet Soup! H is for Humour
It's Gen Fic Day again, and there is Bra'tac and Jaffa Soup over at sg_fignewton's place! Here's my offering for the potluck. Be sure to go read the rest of the buffet!
H is for Humour
“ . . . and the Setesh guard’s nose . . . drips.”
Bra’tac’s face is serious, his voice soft and low and intense, but his eyes twinkle in his scarred face as he delivers the final line.
Around him, the small circle of students stirs, the young novice warriors glancing at each other, mostly uncomfortably. Three of them laugh, but nervously, as if they’re not quite certain that was the correct answer to a question. Sel’ran and Va’lar simply look puzzled. Prau’at looks perturbed, not quite successful at hiding his shock that Master Bra’tac, their teacher, would stop in the middle of a nighttime patrol on the verge of enemy territory to tell a joke. And such a joke. It’s almost disrespectful - it is disrespectful of Setesh, who is a god, after all, even though he was banished in disgrace, even though he’s an enemy of their own god, the dread Lord Apophis.
Teal’c keeps his face impassive, although it’s difficult. He has, in fact, heard the joke already, although his mother doesn’t know this and would be shocked if she had learned of it. It’s not a joke for children. He overheard two warriors telling it, late one night, when they did not know he was awake and listening.
Bra’tac tells it better, or perhaps it makes a difference being able to see his master’s face, see the delicate shifts in expression, see the laughter in his eyes. The joke is funny, funnier than he had imagined. Teal’c wants to laugh aloud, to throw back his head and let his laughter echo off the stones of the rough landscape around them. But he doesn’t. Bra’tac’s voice was soft, going no further than their small group even as he told the joke. This is still a patrol, and they must be wary, even when their teacher tells them jokes.
Even when . . .
Teal’c is aware of the Horus guards before they strike. Part of the troop, he suddenly knows, has been lurking in the trees, waiting while their comrades slip around into flank position. Their presence bulks in his awareness, a distortion in his sense of their surroundings. Teal’c knows when they begin to move, steps and turns smoothly and brings up his staff weapon - newly-issued, the first one that’s his very own. He and Bra’tac are the first to fire.
This is what it is like - he’s seen Bra’tac do this, turn to face a foe before the foe has quite moved into place. This is how it feels, to have that slight, amazing, vast edge over the enemy. His arms and legs are relaxed, his movements flowing and graceful as he fires and pivots and fires again. The skirmish seems unhurried, although it takes only a handful of seconds. The survivors of the enemy patrol retreat in disorder, leaving at least half their force sprawled on the ground.
Bra’tac sends Sel’ran running back to the main encampment. A troop will be dispatched to push forward into this section of the disputed terrain. Their small victory becomes a step forwards for the Jaffa forces. Teal’c’s chest swells with pride at the thought. When they count the fallen enemy warriors, they have slain more than twice their own numbers.
Va’lar and two of the other students have been winged, painful but nothing more than inconvenient. Prau’at was badly hit in the first exchange of fire, and must now lie still for some hours, teeth clenched against the agony as his symbiote, no more experienced with battle than he is, learns how to manage his body’s pain responses and set him on the road to healing. His eyes are sullen, and Teal’c frowns as he turns away from his fellow novice. Master Bra’tac is beckoning to him.
“I must see to the disposition of the new forward outpost. Walk with me.”
Teal’c falls in behind his master, glad to be singled out, but uneasy. Bra’tac gestures, almost impatiently, denying Teal’c the chance to conceal himself in quiet service.
“Speak your mind, young Teal’c.”
He doesn’t want to. But he will not, will never, disobey Bra’tac. “You knew they were there, master. You knew the patrol was on its way.”
“Yes.”
“Prau’at - ”
“Yes?”
“The joke. He was distracted by the joke.”
“He was distracted by his fear.”
Teal’c feels his face flush. He knows it’s true. But he must deny it. “Prau’at is my friend. He is no coward!”
“Teal’c! I did not say he was a coward. But we all carry fear. Even you, young Teal’c. Do you think I do not know?”
Teal’c feels a blazing wash of ice through his body. His face burns, but his belly is so cold he wonders if his symbiote has frozen solid.
“You fear to be anything less than the best. You fear that you will lose honour if you do not surpass all others.”
“Master . . . ”
Teal’c wants to say more, but he cannot. It’s all but impossible to say even that much. Teal’c has been taught that no master will permit fear in a student.
Bra’tac is nodding, almost nonchalant. It’s as if they’re discussing the moves in a practice bout. “Yes. I know of it. I have seen it, and I have seen what you do with your fear. It drives you. You have a fine, strong hold on it, and you use it to make yourself stronger.
“I permit this.” Bra’tac’s eyes, impossibly, twinkle. “For now.”
Is this another joke? Teal’c understands it is, and is not. He sets aside his fear. That is the power of humour. The gods they serve are grim and demanding. Goa’uld laughter is cruel. This is different. Bra’tac is unique amongst the master warriors of the Jaffa: he makes his own rules and his record of victory permits this, while it holds. Teal’c imagines, just for a moment, what it would be like to serve a leader who could laugh freely, who could mock danger and joke in the face of death.
He remembers the moment when his mind relaxed in the wave of unexpressed laughter. The Setesh guard’s nose drips. He understands the lesson. “It is a very funny joke.”
The master’s smile is open and sincere. “It is.”
H is for Humour
“ . . . and the Setesh guard’s nose . . . drips.”
Bra’tac’s face is serious, his voice soft and low and intense, but his eyes twinkle in his scarred face as he delivers the final line.
Around him, the small circle of students stirs, the young novice warriors glancing at each other, mostly uncomfortably. Three of them laugh, but nervously, as if they’re not quite certain that was the correct answer to a question. Sel’ran and Va’lar simply look puzzled. Prau’at looks perturbed, not quite successful at hiding his shock that Master Bra’tac, their teacher, would stop in the middle of a nighttime patrol on the verge of enemy territory to tell a joke. And such a joke. It’s almost disrespectful - it is disrespectful of Setesh, who is a god, after all, even though he was banished in disgrace, even though he’s an enemy of their own god, the dread Lord Apophis.
Teal’c keeps his face impassive, although it’s difficult. He has, in fact, heard the joke already, although his mother doesn’t know this and would be shocked if she had learned of it. It’s not a joke for children. He overheard two warriors telling it, late one night, when they did not know he was awake and listening.
Bra’tac tells it better, or perhaps it makes a difference being able to see his master’s face, see the delicate shifts in expression, see the laughter in his eyes. The joke is funny, funnier than he had imagined. Teal’c wants to laugh aloud, to throw back his head and let his laughter echo off the stones of the rough landscape around them. But he doesn’t. Bra’tac’s voice was soft, going no further than their small group even as he told the joke. This is still a patrol, and they must be wary, even when their teacher tells them jokes.
Even when . . .
Teal’c is aware of the Horus guards before they strike. Part of the troop, he suddenly knows, has been lurking in the trees, waiting while their comrades slip around into flank position. Their presence bulks in his awareness, a distortion in his sense of their surroundings. Teal’c knows when they begin to move, steps and turns smoothly and brings up his staff weapon - newly-issued, the first one that’s his very own. He and Bra’tac are the first to fire.
This is what it is like - he’s seen Bra’tac do this, turn to face a foe before the foe has quite moved into place. This is how it feels, to have that slight, amazing, vast edge over the enemy. His arms and legs are relaxed, his movements flowing and graceful as he fires and pivots and fires again. The skirmish seems unhurried, although it takes only a handful of seconds. The survivors of the enemy patrol retreat in disorder, leaving at least half their force sprawled on the ground.
Bra’tac sends Sel’ran running back to the main encampment. A troop will be dispatched to push forward into this section of the disputed terrain. Their small victory becomes a step forwards for the Jaffa forces. Teal’c’s chest swells with pride at the thought. When they count the fallen enemy warriors, they have slain more than twice their own numbers.
Va’lar and two of the other students have been winged, painful but nothing more than inconvenient. Prau’at was badly hit in the first exchange of fire, and must now lie still for some hours, teeth clenched against the agony as his symbiote, no more experienced with battle than he is, learns how to manage his body’s pain responses and set him on the road to healing. His eyes are sullen, and Teal’c frowns as he turns away from his fellow novice. Master Bra’tac is beckoning to him.
“I must see to the disposition of the new forward outpost. Walk with me.”
Teal’c falls in behind his master, glad to be singled out, but uneasy. Bra’tac gestures, almost impatiently, denying Teal’c the chance to conceal himself in quiet service.
“Speak your mind, young Teal’c.”
He doesn’t want to. But he will not, will never, disobey Bra’tac. “You knew they were there, master. You knew the patrol was on its way.”
“Yes.”
“Prau’at - ”
“Yes?”
“The joke. He was distracted by the joke.”
“He was distracted by his fear.”
Teal’c feels his face flush. He knows it’s true. But he must deny it. “Prau’at is my friend. He is no coward!”
“Teal’c! I did not say he was a coward. But we all carry fear. Even you, young Teal’c. Do you think I do not know?”
Teal’c feels a blazing wash of ice through his body. His face burns, but his belly is so cold he wonders if his symbiote has frozen solid.
“You fear to be anything less than the best. You fear that you will lose honour if you do not surpass all others.”
“Master . . . ”
Teal’c wants to say more, but he cannot. It’s all but impossible to say even that much. Teal’c has been taught that no master will permit fear in a student.
Bra’tac is nodding, almost nonchalant. It’s as if they’re discussing the moves in a practice bout. “Yes. I know of it. I have seen it, and I have seen what you do with your fear. It drives you. You have a fine, strong hold on it, and you use it to make yourself stronger.
“I permit this.” Bra’tac’s eyes, impossibly, twinkle. “For now.”
Is this another joke? Teal’c understands it is, and is not. He sets aside his fear. That is the power of humour. The gods they serve are grim and demanding. Goa’uld laughter is cruel. This is different. Bra’tac is unique amongst the master warriors of the Jaffa: he makes his own rules and his record of victory permits this, while it holds. Teal’c imagines, just for a moment, what it would be like to serve a leader who could laugh freely, who could mock danger and joke in the face of death.
He remembers the moment when his mind relaxed in the wave of unexpressed laughter. The Setesh guard’s nose drips. He understands the lesson. “It is a very funny joke.”
The master’s smile is open and sincere. “It is.”