A large room, a hall, fills my vision. There is gold and precious gems everywhere.

Servants. No, slaves. They exist to do our bidding. Food, drinks, delivered at a gesture.

Worshippers, bowing down before our might. Our divinity. Their divinity.

They bow down before the two thrones. The woman glances down at me, where I sit at my father's feet. I stare back, my unusual gaze meeting hers. She turns away, her magenta hair gliding over her shoulders, even as my father, her husband, rests a hand on my head.

My mother. She is jealous of the favour my father shows me, and the awe and reverence bestowed on me by the people who are meant to worship her.

The worshippers present a gift, a finely crafted shield, embossed with a stylized symbol of the sun, what my father represents. His dark eyes coolly inspect the offering, and I freeze.

Finally, he nods, and a Jaffa takes the shield, even as I take a breath. There will be no sacrifices today, for which I am grateful. Too many die at their whim.

The common people, the peasants, the slaves, the Jaffa; they call them Ra, the god of the sun, and Hathor, his queen, the mother of all.

I call them my parents.

As the beloved daughter of the Sun, I am honoured by the people as goddess of the stars, the small suns that grace the night sky and offer hope until the true Sun returns. But I am no deity.

Neither are they.

I know the truth, that so many do not, that keeps so many enslaved. They are parasites, and they care not for our kind.

I am not one of them. Not a Goa'uld, as they call themselves. I am born of the hosts, of the poor souls imprisoned in their own bodies. Yet Ra sees me as his daughter nonetheless, and more; as a way to make the people worship him more, despite the fact that my very existence is forbidden, and because I hold all the knowledge of these creatures, the others would have no choice but to kill me, and preserve themselves.

If they knew of me, of my birth.

I was born, in the religious centre of a culture that is dark of skin, eyes and hair, as pale as first sunrise, with eyes as blue as the sky at noon, and hair as soft as the whitest sand of an oasis. Had I been born to any other couple, I would have been killed within a heartbeat. Instead, I was born to the gods. In a society such as this, a special significance was placed on me.

Hathor sees me as a rival.

I do not garner the attention of the people, but it falls upon me anyway. Just by virtue of my birth am I worshipped and honoured. And more, adored.

Hathor has become fearful to our people. They do not worship her from choice or because it brings them joy or inner peace. Hathor rules by fear.

And Hathor is ruled by fear. She fears me, though I have never moved against her. She fears the support I have from my father, and the love I have from my people. And she fears the lack of control.

They tried to take me once before, when I first went through the rites of womanhood. Tried to make me one of their own, a Goa'uld. The creature forced its way into the back of my neck.

I forced it back out, killing it in the process.

It was not a conscious decision, more an instinctive reaction. Hathor has feared me since. I am the only Tau'ri to resist infestation, doubtless because of my parentage.

My father dismissed her concerns. Hathor has become too ambitious for his comfort. Ra will allow no harm to come to me. The people bless me and curse her, and for a god who wishes to keep a spiritual leash upon his people, I am of far more use than the one the people most fear.

My father believes me to be no threat to his dominance, and I give him no reason to think otherwise. Until my mother has been neutralized, I can make no move.

I am the daughter of the gods, honoured as goddess of the stars.

I am the Ik'larel.

When the time comes, I will free my people.

*****

Samantha Carter sat upright in bed, breathing heavily. Her eyes flicked frantically around the room, panicking for a moment before her brain recognized where she was; her quarters at the SGC. Sparse and basic, the simple surroundings calmed her.

Resting her head on her hands, she worked to get her breath back. That had been the strangest dream – no, not dream. It felt too… real, to be a figment of her imagination.

'It had to be a dream,' she argued to herself. What else could it be? She curled up into a tight ball, praying for sleep to take away the memory of that … dream.

*****