Title: Fractured Moon 1/4

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG13/R (Gen)

Fandom: SGA

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if SGA was still on, Sheppard would wear t-shirts more often and climb stuff. And we would be starting season 7 now. Oh, and it always kind of bugged/bugs me when shows like SGA and SPN use thick bulky rope to apparently secure our heroes for some onscreen whump and only wrap it twice around with a little loop? Why? Why? So... yeah, I used rope, lots and lots of rope.

Written for the Sheppard H/C fic exchange for Kriadydragon. Prompt at the end. (oh boy, first exchange jitters!) Hope you like it!

Beta read by SamanthaV – thanks for the encouragement and support

Summary: Captured and in some serious trouble, Sheppard needs to escape his crazy native captors and rescue his team from the 'supposedly civilized but maybe actually cannibals' villagers.

Warning: Graphic descriptions, but nothing 'onscreen'

Spoilers: SGA none really, post season 5.

Oh, he was so going to have a boot shaped bruise between his shoulder blades... make that several. Fortunately, unfortunately, it was a little hard to weigh the pros and cons at the moment, the dull ache and pull that should have been a screaming torrent of pain, was more uncomfortable than anything else.

The guy currently putting all of his weight behind cutting off the circulation to Sheppard's arms had him pinned between a rather prickly wooden post and his boot, and was yanking for all he was worth on the ropes wrapped around John's elbows, a dirt encrusted foot planted firmly between his shoulder blades.

"I think you got it, dude," John hissed, the vague discomfort notching up to real pain, as Mr. Conscientious wrapped another couple of loops of rope over and through his upper arms, and then pulled, cinching the loops tight, biting into skin, the rough hemp sliding down his arms until it was stopped by the mass of rope at his elbows. Shoulders protesting loudly, in a disconnected sort of way, nerves and neurons still abuzz with the happy juice, John heard more than felt his back crack, as the boot was moved to the small of his back and the pulling started all over again.

"Give it a rest, man, enough." There were going to be matching bruises on his chest, the guy was pushing so forcefully into his back. John wasn't the only one being subjected to the extremely thorough 'tying up'. Several men from the village were pinned to similar poles and had their own detail oriented, sadistic ... ah... Tie 'em Up-er? Bondage maker? Rope Handler? Knot Expert? Sadistic SOB.

Finally, finally!, satisfied with the ropes and knots and no doubt rapidly swelling hands and arms, John was hauled to his unsteady feet. "Watch the merchandise, buddy!" Sheppard muttered as he was body slammed into the post, narrowly missing smashing his nose. Head still swimming, John gulped back rising nausea, picked a relatively steady spot in the distance and tried to pull himself together.

Whatever the hell had been in that fruit was seriously interfering with his nervous system, that much he was certain of. Random numb spots, sudden dizziness, pins and needles all over, but that may have been due more to the ropes. The relatively steady spot he'd picked was a long thin flagpole on the edge of the firelight. The roaring, towering bonfire at the centre of the haphazard village was a bright spot of agony to look at, so John didn't, ignoring the excited figures gyrating around it - definitely something out of an old adventure movie. The trees here were massive, towering giants covered in vines and leaves and ... fruit. The weird fruit was everywhere, every tree seemed to have it and John groaned a little, but more due to the guy behind him pressing him more firmly against the post.

This lot were a hell of a lot different from the others and judging by the stunned expressions of his fellow prisoners, the more civilised half of the population on MXC-333 didn't have much to do with their rowdier, half naked brethren. Hoping that either a) his team was ok and b) on their way to rescue him, Sheppard swallowed again against the nausea, peering blearily at the flagpole.

Leaning against the post, John rested his cheek on the rough wood, uncaring, his head beginning to pound in unison with his throbbing arms. All of the prisoners seemed to be secured and everyone was waiting patiently by their post, one man openly weeping. Their captors, job now done, seemed disinclined to do anything more than keep them in place and wait.

Certain that what was to follow would be... unpleasant, knowing his luck, Sheppard kinda hoped the rest of his luck held true and his team swooped in to the rescue with plenty of time to spare. Blinking a little, sweating profusely in the heat despite it being the middle of the night, Sheppard couldn't help muttering, "What the hell are we waiting for?"

Strangely, surprisingly, his over-muscled captor answered, voice thick with a strange accent. "We wait for Githa's third eye to rise."

"Eh?" The guy was pointing up, to the break in the canopy around the village. Two small moons, one with a striking trio of rings around it, could be seen through the break. They looked larger than Lantea's moons, but smaller than Earth's and had the usual mottled skin from meteor strikes. "Three moons, huh? Pretty."

"They are her eyes, watching in the night, waiting to swallow us whole." He seemed pretty ok with the idea of being swallowed whole, his oddly mutilated face staring up in adoration at the moons. No doubt in deference to the heat, John's current captor and actually the one he suspected had grabbed him back at the village during the attack, was wearing nothing more than a loincloth and various leather... things. That, however, wasn't the really eye catching thing about him, it was one of the least in fact. More noticeable, nay, unavoidable was his split and flattened nose, little spikes piercing through his very upper lip into the elongated nose – probably pinning it there. Part of the strange accent was due to his forked tongue, split at the very end. He was also hairless, completely, and either spent a great deal of time waxing and/or shaving or these people had figured out a way to ensure no hair grew... anywhere.

And the hairlessness and nose mutilation was just about the only thing they all had in common, as for the rest... their 'eye catchingness' was down to personal pref. John's guy was covered in tattoos – most of scales and ridges, mimicking snake or reptile skin. He had pierced his eyebrows with so many sharp little sticks, he looked perpetually surprised and pissed off. And what wasn't tattooed, was painted – lips black, eyes kohled, hands and feet covered in swirls and whorls. The guy had actually removed his nipples it seemed, his chest flat and smooth, small scars barely noticeable, or maybe it was body paint...

Whatever, the guy looked like a scary freak and it didn't take much to connect their obsession with snakes... er reptiles and the glistening white statue on the other side of the bonfire. John hadn't got a real good look at it, but there were a lot of heads... maybe three. Arms strangely numb - suddenly numb - Sheppard sighed and spoke before really thinking about it, "Looks like you guys had more than three, huh. Smaller one... close to Mr. Rings up there?"

Head still pounding despite the now lack of feeling in his arms, Sheppard barely, but did in the end, notice the guy stiffen and turn to glare at him. Ok, maybe not glare, it was a little hard to tell in the dark despite the firelight and bright full moons.

"A fourth?"

"Yeah, a pilot moon, crushed by the others, now draped around that one." John nodded at the more distant of the two moons, its triple rings silver in the light of its neighbour.

"Githa fought a mighty battle with the Sun, losing an eye but lengthening the night so that she can hunt in peace, undisturbed by his Heat." Freaky ran his forked tongue over his black lips, John watching in fascination.

"Lies!" John couldn't exactly turn around, but he figured it was one of the villagers on his right. The guy sounded fairly out of it, but his words were clear enough. "Heskth put out the Snake's eyes so she stole his light and fashioned..."

The unseen villager's equally unseen but probably bulky captor silenced him with a meaty thud, John wincing in sympathy. His own Freak snarled, "You will soon scream otherwise, Soft Belly."

The village near the Stargate had seemed fairly normal, the jungle more forest, nice and tamed, and the pleasant villagers had hardly seemed the fanatical religious sort. "What is a fanatic?"

"Hmmm?" Sheppard glanced around and came eyeball to eyeball with his captor and resisted the reflex to draw back, mostly because there was no space to do so. "You called him a fanatic?"

"I did?"

"Yes. What is that?"

"Ah," Sheppard wondered what else he may have been thinking aloud and mumbled, "Fanatics are kinda obsessive, unreasonable, give good people a bad name kinda thing. You know... fanatical about their beliefs."

Freak's smile was grotesque, and his breath truly awful and he laughed, "For something so hairy, you're smart."

"Thanks, I think."

The celebrations around the bonfire were reaching a peak, or perhaps conclusion, and the five keepers straightened at the increasing volume of drums and shrieks. The sixth did not however, and Freak remained focused on Sheppard. Suddenly curious, the guy grabbed a fistful of Sheppard's hair and didn't exactly pull so much as yank. "Soft."

"And attached... easy on the do, dude."

Still with a very firm grip on his hair, Freak turned John's face towards him, ran a rough finger over the stubble on his jaw and said, "Tell me what you think happened to Githa's fourth eye?"

Apparently not really in control of his mouth, Sheppard said, "Maybe gravitational forces, a serious meteor strike knocked it too close to the other moons, or hell, maybe it was the inevitability of life. It cracked and crumbled, parts crashing into the moons, I don't know. The lighter remnants stayed to be the rings, larger chunks probably fell from the sky, falling stars, years and years of meteor showers."

Freak's breath was hot and fetid, his grip unyielding and he stared at John intently as he said, "And her tears fell for a hundred years, mourning the loss of her eye, tears of fire and blood. How do you know this, Offworlder?"

Ah, so they did know about the Gate, and other worlds. Sheppard shrugged minutely, more concerned with his parched throat and mouth and hissed, "Just lucky I guess."

Looking behind him, Freak sighed, "Maybe not as lucky as you think."

There was definite movement and motion near the fire and an actual honest to goodness metallic gong sounded, followed by a cacophony of bells and Freak backed off, letting John slump a little against the post. The relief was short lived though, as his bound elbows were grabbed and he was hauled towards the center of the prisoner's circle, Freak shoving him to his knees. The other prisoners were similarly relocated and then John's view of them was obscured as a meaty hand grabbed his jaw, forcing his head back and up. Caught off guard, Freak was able to shove a small bottle into Sheppard's mouth, up ending the foul contents. Gagging for real, John tried to shake himself free, but with both hands now available, Freak just forced his mouth shut, held his nose and John swallowed.

The result was instantaneous, something Freak was expecting because he let go not a moment too soon as Sheppard buckled forward, hurling a stream of bile and vomit. Perversely fascinated with the stream of pinkish-red coming from his mouth, gut and who the hell knew what, Sheppard gagged and retched until nothing more would come. Apparently not done, Freak grabbed his head again and John wondered where the hell he was pulling these bottles from, because another one was shoved into his mouth, more foul tasting crap forced down and then he was heaving up his internal organs again.

Light-headed, aching all over, his arms a growling, screaming pain, shoulders and neck on fire, Sheppard groaned loudly. He wasn't the only one either, his five fellows equally miserable. Freak crouched next to him, watching the occasional dry heave dispassionately. "The red merfl lingers in your belly a long time, its effects running through your veins for hours."

"So what?"

John leaned down awkwardly, wiping his mouth on his pants, trying to gain a little control, but the rising pain in his arms was making that very difficult. "We do not want you... them, to escape feeling anything of what is to come."

Ah. Red Meryl Streep fruit it was then – great little head trip not so painkillers. "Melodramatic much?" Freak didn't answer though, and John didn't really feel like pressing for details of this ominous 'what is to come' – it could only be bad.

Turned out to be very bad. Freak was the last to haul John to his feet and steer him towards the cavorting crowds and Sheppard got his first good look at the flagpoles doting the village. They weren't flagpoles for one. It was dark, but the firelight happily illuminated enough of the desiccated corpse impaled on top of the pole. Even the brief glimpse was enough to invoke another bout of dry heaves, but Freak did not pause and was soon pulling Sheppard through the screaming crowd.

As the prisoners arrived however, John at the end, the raucous crowd fell silent, and in the sudden quiet, only the snap and crackle of the fire was heard. The pale white statue of a three headed snake thing was a lot clearer now and it was not hard to spot the six newly cut, very sharp, very thick poles stacked against it.

"Shit, shit, shit."

In the silence, a wrinkled, entirely tattooed man stepped forward, his thin lips and skinny shoulders only adding to the reptilian image. "Githa thirsts."

The crowd responded, "For blood!"

"She swallows whole."

A collective gasp and groan, "Bones and feet and head."

"The darkness waits."

A mighty shout, "With teeth!"

"Bring the first."

Freak shoved John to his knees, but it certainly did not prevent or obscure his view at all. The crowd had backed off enough that there was an impressive space around the fire and statute. The old man intoned loudly as the first prisoner was dragged forward, a stream of pleas and protests already audible. "Eater of Flesh. She shall consume you."

"Consume!"

"Soft Belly. She will pierce you through."

"Pierce!"

"Vile Deceiver. She will purify you!"

"In death!"

The poor guy was dragged to the foot of the statue, his keeper kicking and forcing him onto his stomach. Alone, with no one helping and without apparently needing it, the guy hog tied the condemned man, feet to hands, performing the same complicated, twisted knots, pulling and cinching, ankle to elbows, knees tied to together. All the while, the guy wailed and cried, struggling ineffectively against his oh so secure bonds.

Done, all the loose ends neatly tucked away, the prisoner a veritable mass of rope, the keeper stepped back, snagged a thick pole and then looked at the old man. The crowd was silent, but not with anticipation or excitement. It was more the intense silence of an unfolding drama, none of the heady heat from before. The old man stepped forward and kicked the prisoner over onto his side, exposing his belly, and the man upped the litany of cries and wails.

"Silence, creature. Renounce your ways, denounce the Sun, confess your sins – and I will spill your blood. Fail to recant, and the one who captured you will take his reward and avenge Githa."

The man's wails subsided, and he actually shot a nervous look at his fellow villagers who, now that John actually paid attention, were stone faced and angry. The guy licked his lips, paling as his keeper handled the long pole, and said, "You will cut my throat?"

The old man nodded. "Confess and your death will be swift. Otherwise it will be slow and agonising – as only you deserve."

The man very firmly stared up at the old man and stammered, "I confess..."

The prisoner next to John, perhaps the same one from before judging by his black eye, exploded in anger, "Traitor. Faithless dog!" He was easy to subdue though, the combination of pain and prolonged retching and well, another ham-sized fist and he lapsed into glowering, malignant silence.

"Say on, Soft Belly."

The man shot a nervous, apologetic look at his fellows before stammering again, "I confess. I renounce He.. the Sun."

Shaking his head, the old man withdrew a long, deadly dagger and said, "Confess."

The crowd whispered, taking up the echo, 'Confess'. Looking at the blade, the man gulped, "I confess I have sinned." Nothing more was forthcoming though and the crowd visibly rustled in disapproval. The old man knelt, holding out the blade, "Confess, Deceiver. All."

Entranced by the nearness of the blade, the prisoner stammered, "I... ate flesh. I enjoyed it. I hunted it. I offered it to the Sun."

There was no response from the silent crowd, and John felt a rough hand snag his hair, but Freak said nothing. "All."

"Uhm... I lured the innocent, the naive. Spoke lies and half truths, hungered for flesh, for soft, soft flesh." The prisoners near John were muttering, shaking their heads, the loudmouth from before visibly fuming.

"Do you denounce?"

"Yes," the man stammered again, and the old man leant forward and swiftly drew his blade across the exposed throat and growled, "Then let Githa forgive you, for we cannot."

The man died with a soft gurgle, his blood soaking into the ground, a dark spreading pool. The keeper standing over the cooling corpse threw the pole into the fire and the crowd sighed, "Githa."

The old man stood, turned to face the crowd and said, "Bring the second."

Not surprisingly, Loudmouth was hauled over, his stiff, silent demeanour a stark contrast. His keeper shoved him onto the ground, onto his stomach , face close to the corpse of his fellow.

"Githa thirsts." The old man intoned.

It wasn't all that long ago that the very real certainty of death had hung over him in the shape of a Wraith and Kolya's icy smile, but Sheppard couldn't help but feel that time was rapidly running out. His team would have to arrive pretty darn soon if they were going to save him. Freak had not let go of his hair, but it grounded John, his head swimming in a miasma of fear and pain.

It didn't take long for Loudmouth to be prepared, hog tied and defiant. With the executioners ready, pole and blade in hand, the old man kicked the condemned man over, once again exposing his belly.

"Renounce your ways. Denounce..."

"Never!"

The old man stopped, met the hard, defiant gaze and said loudly, "Choose your death."

Loudmouth snarled, his lips curled in derision, "I would sooner slide upon my belly and lick the dust like your filthy snake than renounce our ways."

"Then she will judge you."

John shut his eyes, unconsciously turning away and Freak let him, but no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, he couldn't shut off his hearing . There was no cheer from the crowd, no jeering or hissing. Just silence, and then terrified screams.

It was only when the screams faded, and crowd began to murmur again that John opened his eyes. There was a new pool of blood but no impaled corpse and Freak whispered, "They have taken him to the edge of the jungle, where Githa will judge him until he dies.

There were no words as Sheppard looked up at the face of his executioner as silence fell again and the old man said, "Bring the third." All John could really hear were the distant, but oh so still audible, screams.

Surprisingly enough, of the remaining three villagers, only one more man renounced, despite the very real and vivid picture of what awaited those who did not. Sheppard determinedly did not watch as number 3 and number 5 were impaled and carried off by several men, and then it was only him left before the fire and two corpses lying in their own blood.

Unless Ronon burst onto the scene in the next 30 seconds, John knew exactly what 'death' he was going to choose. And as the old man said, "Bring the last," Freak hauled him up and promptly dropped him belly down near the dead men.

"Githa thirsts."

Having heard this litany five horrific times already, John closed his eyes, not really wanting his last moments to be filled with the intense faces of a crowd of Reptile Worshippers. Freak was as efficient and conscientious as before, and Sheppard did not fight him. Freak ran a rope from tightly bound knees to ankles, boots long discarded along with tac vest, weapons and anything of value. The rope bit tightly and deeply into his skin, hands pulled through his legs before his ankles were cinched to his elbows. It was excruciating, back arched and desperate to alleviate the pain. Freak continued to tie and loop and tighten and it wasn't hard to let a few tears loose as the sadistic freak pulled and pulled and pulled until everything, everything screamed in pain. Finally done, John couldn't see him move to get the last pole, but he heard the soft footfalls and then the old man was kicking him over.

Being on his side really didn't help matters, none of the pain was diminished in the slightest. Looking up at the old man, John was surprised to see that the knife was sheathed and instead of a demand to renounce, the old guy said, "Offworlder. Your presence is an affront to Githa. Only her children, those who wait to be swallowed, may walk in her Jungle. You consort with evil, eat with them, trade with them. Your strangeness and arrogance offends her and she will judge you."

Heart climbing out his chest, John cried out, "Wait, wait... I ..."

"There is nothing you can say, Offworlder. No matter your ignorance or protests, Githa will judge." Bathed in cold sweat, heart pounding, Sheppard stared up at the night sky, refusing to watch Freak approach with that damn skewer, eyes fixed on the three heavy moons above. Rings was slightly obscured by the late arrival of the Third Eye, this one the largest, slightly blue in colour. The stars themselves were barely visible, distant pinpricks.

Taking a deep breath, Sheppard turned back to the towering figure - Freak - looming over him, the sharp end of the pole unerringly pointed at his stomach suddenly wanting to see it coming. Freak however was looking more at the moons than John, slowly gazing up and down; Sheppard then the moons.

The crowd was silent as ever, the old man unseen, only Freak really John's focus. The point of the pole touched his t-shirt but John didn't tear his eyes away from Freak's mutilated face. Freak met his gaze and John said, "You can probably only see it on clear winter nights, but all three moons have rings, dust and death of the fourth around them. I bet they shimmer sometimes, a strange halo, like an iris."

"Githa's Gaze."

"Your whole planet has pieces of the fourth on it, strange rocks that don't look like anything normal, in craters and pits and dark places."

"Githa's Tears."

"When the fourth moon collapsed, crushed between the gravity wells of its bigger sisters, the tides changed, there were storms and seasons of drought."

Freak sank to his haunches, pole clattering to the ground, "The Jungle writhed."

Sheppard was running out of fun facts about moons, the gnawing, biting, grinding pain blinding him. Freak however did not take up the pole again and said instead, "What of the Sun? Speak of it."

Looking up, John frowned and struggled with, "Giant ball of gas. I mean huge. Takes minutes for the light to reach the planet it's so far away."

"It is bigger than the world? The Moons?"

Uncaring if his answers were not what Freak wanted to hear, John nodded, "Yeah, massive – can fit a thousand planets inside it, I think. But the sky is full of suns – all the stars are distant suns, thousands upon billions of light years away."

"The stars are suns?"

"Yeah. Very, very distant suns."

"Ours is not the only one?"

"Nope. On my world, I look up at the night sky and your sun is a distant, distant star."

Freak actually smiled at that and said slowly, "Githa moves above us, slowly swallowing the world, the glints of her scales the pinpricks of the lights above, surrounding her beautiful eyes. She slowly squeezes the world, encompasses the sky."

Not entirely sure where this was going, Sheppard said quietly, pain under-riding everything, "Space, the black, is endless. Goes on forever, filled with thousands of worlds, suns, stars, galaxies, crazy assed people."

The old man suddenly hunkered down next to Freak and stared at them both, before saying, "You speak as a man, with respect for Githa. Which is larger Offworlder, Githa or the Sun?"

Really struggling to think clearly through the screaming pain, Sheppard growled, "If by Githa you mean space and stars and shit, then hell yeah, Githa is bigger than the sun. The Sun lives in her."

"Perhaps your presence does not offend Githa after all. Do what you will with your prize, Orath." And with that, the old man left, and the crowd began to disperse. A lone, cut off strangle of a scream echoed in the silence of the late night and Freak stared down at Sheppard, reached out for a fistful of hair, and said, "Soft."

*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a