A/N: The formatting is being uncooperative at the moment. Hopefully it'll shape up.
An AU where Merlin's weapon never destroyed the Ori:
The first time they realize it is when Daniel rattles out one last dying breath, closes his eyes – and opens them minutes later with a ragged gasp. He runs his hands over the rents in his clothes that hang over now-unbroken skin and stares back at his teammates with the same confusion they are regarding him with.
"Perhaps it's a residual effect of being Ascended," Sam speculates. "Laying dormant-"
Cam shakes his head. "But why did it wait so long?"
"It was on a time delay?" Vala offers.
SG-1 collectively shake their heads. "I believe not," Teal'c says. They sit around the campfire on a backwater moon and wait for inspiration to strike.
"It has to be an Ancient," Daniel says. "One that's finally realized how ridiculous their no interference policy is."
"It's possible with the advancing of the Ori into the Milky Way the Ancients have decided to lessen their rules of noninterference, or not noticed when one of them broke it." Sam rolls a stone meditatively between her palms as she thinks. "But that was unlike any Ancient healing we've seen. Usually they're visible as a flash of light, a person, something."
Daniel shrugs helplessly and voices what they're all thinking: "What else could it be?"
The followers of the Ori had celebrated on the day the Tau'ri fell to a surprise attack, but accounts are so varied as to be unreliable. All that rest of the galaxy knows for certain is the Stargate isn't working and getting to Earth would require dodging Ori patrols. It's possible Earth is still intact. Extremely unlikely, but possible. Perhaps the Ori ships contented themselves with simply bombarding the surface, and small pockets of humans from less devastated areas survived. Perhaps they surrendered to the might of the Ori before the firing even started and the subsequent announcement of annihilation was just propaganda.
Or perhaps they blew the planet to bits the minute they were in range.
Their dinner of hastily cleaned fish has finally roasted over the fire, and SG-1 is still no closer to an answer for Daniel's mysterious recovery. The campsite fills with the sound swishing of water in canteens and quiet chewing. The fire burns lower, but nobody moves to collect more firewood; this moon is warm enough at night, and the illuminated planet below them illuminates the campsite enough for sight.
When dinner's over, Daniel pulls out a needle to mend one of their shirts; Cam and Teal'c go to collect water and make one last sweep of the immediate area; Vala consults the journal of gate addresses and begins making notations on the status of recently visited planets, conferring quietly with Daniel; Sam begins her routine maintenance on the bits and pieces of technology the team's collected, most of it decrepit enough it requires constant attention to remain passably operational, with the few quality Earth tools she had squirreled away on their last mission.
None of their allies are surprised when SG-1 dials in weeks after the announcement, haggard but alive and incessantly asking for reliable intelligence on the status of Earth. The Ori might have taken the Milky Way by storm, but the frontline Tau'ri team has survived eight years on impossible odds, and no gods from a distant galaxy will change that. They contact all their allies, but nobody has the resources to get through to where Earth might be.
After weeks of empty hands and half-hearted offers of help towards their diminished allies of Earth, SG-1 strikes out on their own with a new mission: procure technology in defense of their own and follow all potential leads on the status of Earth. A first prime's final task was to avenge the death of his god; SG-1's final task (if indeed their planet was dead) was to defeat the Ori.
Vala and Daniel quietly discuss their next move over the occasional clang of Sam's fiddling. Daniel has finished with the shirt and is now taking inventory of essentials. "Teal'c is going to need more Tretonin soon," he says.
Vala consults her notebook, squinting slightly as she slowly decodes the notes. In that book is every gate address the team could remember along with any vital details. Daniel had originally started out as note keeper, but it had quickly transitioned to Vala's job when she pouted too many times in whatever temporary camp they had set up that she was bored. Daniel's taught her enough of the code he had begun using for her to take over the writing, and given how many of their nights are just waiting around a camp, the fact it takes her a while to translate between English and their code is a bonus.
"We could go to P3C-249. There might be some Jaffa who'd be willing to trade Tretonin for that whatsit we found two 'gates ago."
Daniel's eyes flick up as he tries to remember the planet and then nods. "That should work."
By rights, SG-1 should be dead many times over. Even after surviving the destruction of Earth due to being off on a routine exploratory mission to an unpopulated and unexciting hunk of rock, they should have died innumerable times over. They're four people against an army, scrabbling for supplies while their enemies inexorably build their control over the Milky Way with the resources of yet another galaxy behind them – but somehow they keep on finding sympathetic allies and keep on surviving hackneyed plans, their tools held together by hope and spit overpowering those built under the supervision of ascended beings. They effectively mount guerilla offensives on forces with a hundred times their number – and the sole time one of their own has died he's come back healed and healthy, if confused.
(With each victory, belief in SG-1 grows. Even those that view them as evil or misguided believe them to be unstoppable, a force to rival the Ori themselves. )
Cam and Teal'c come back with jugs of water and wet hair. "The perimeter's clear, and the river's nice for washing if freezing," Cameron reports, shuddering with cold for dramatic effect. "Y'all can clean up in the morning, because you smell like my cousins after the family Fourth of July football game." Vala sticks her tongue out at him and vainly fingers the limp curls of her pigtails.
They spend the next hour conferring over their next moves, spit-balling long-term plans, and filling time with idle chat. There's no specific signal, but eventually they all start packing up their supplies – just in case a quick exit is necessary – as one and head for their temporary lean-tos. It's still bright enough to be false dawn, but they've slept through more difficult conditions. Sam sets up their long-range sentry scanner, Teal'c takes first watch, and one by one the others drop off to sleep.
The Ori draw power from the belief of their followers, made all the more potent by the hours of prostration required by Origin. But the Ori number in the hundreds, and that power must be shared among them. Hours of prostration are necessary even with an entire galaxy of devotees to empower that many beings. SG-1, on the other hand, who also has an entire galaxy that believes in their invulnerability so adamantly, only number four.
Humans don't possess the knowledge to utilize that force, to shape into anything tangible. But simply guiding energy that already exists into its proper conduits so it can be utilized against an enemy bent on genocide is hardly interfering.
The flashy but unreliable shield generator they'd picked up two 'gates ago nets a reasonable supply of Tretonin. Daniel smiles in satisfaction as Teal'c tucks the medicine away in his robes and continues to chat with the trader. He's found nomadic salespeople are often good sources of information – even better if their wares are bought by a vast and varied pool of customers.
He's also found that traders who shift uncomfortably, eyes nervously flickering back and forth between himself and Teal'c possess heady information that's possibly deadly. The way Teal'c tucks his arms into his robes at the exact spot his weapon is holstered is a silent agreement.
Daniel smiles politely and waits for the trader to stutter to a halt. Then he leans in close and clasps a hand on the man's shoulder. He leans in, knowing Teal'c is looking menacing behind him, close enough to catch a whiff of sweat. "I have a feeling you know something important," Daniel murmurs. He keeps his voice light enough so anyone trying to eavesdrop will be unable to distinguish it from the upbeat bustling noise of the surrounding market.
The Ancients had created humans as their next generation. It is a paradox of evolution, that the more evolved species are cursed with an inability to reproduce. By taking the path to Ascension they had gained great power and knowledge – but they had also given up the ability to create children. It's a shortcoming they had not foreseen, possibly the one ability they envy in those on the lower planes. They can create life from molecules and particles, but to fashion a new ascended being was beyond even them. Their population stagnated; their development eventually plateaued; their creativity dried up.
Humans were birthed on Earth for their species' second evolution. The Ancients could wait until their younger compatriots evolved sufficiently, and then together the blended populations would again strive forward, continue down the path of further enlightenment. Perhaps the second generation would even be able to overcome the curse of infertility, be able to create a wholly unique being by processes that have long failed the Ancients.
Then Ori sent their armies bent on domination and halting human evolution, on delegating those the Ancients had come to see as children to an eternity of servitude as a means to wipe out the Ancients themselves.
The trader whimpers back in his throat, trying vainly to extract himself from Daniel's bruising grip and looking everywhere but at Daniel himself. "I- I don't –" Daniel tsks loudly as he shakes his head and the trader immediately quiets. "Let's not make this harder than it has to be. Tell me what you know." Teal'c shifts with an audible rustle of fabric, drawing the trader's eye. The man deflates, wiping nervous sweat off his upper lip. "I heard – a rumor," he says. "A whisper – a mere whisper, mind you, that one of the Tau'ri had been killed."
Since news of Earth had swept through the galaxy, SG-1 has simply been designated as the Tau'ri, despite two of their members being nonnative. There are undoubtedly pockets of other Earth natives out there – small research bases, the former residents of the now-abandoned Alpha site, the inaccessible Atlantis – but since their home planet has been destroyed they have gone silent, retreating into isolation as a last attempt to defend themselves from the Ori. Daniel cannot fault them for retreating from that which they cannot fight, but he and the rest of SG-1 cannot join them.
Daniel stares at the trader until he beings speaking again. "The – the rumor said – it, uh, claimed Ori soldiers had fatally wounded one of the Tau'ri. The one with glasses." His eyes flicker up to meet Daniels then back at the ground. "The one named Daniel Jackson." They hadn't expected news of Daniel's death to travel so fast – but with them the unofficial figureheads of the Ori resistance it shouldn't have surprised him.
The trader quick-glances at him again nervously, taking his silence as a bad sign. "Of course," he blusters on, "I don't know why you would want to know about the Tau'ri, for I am sure you have nothing in common with them! I was merely reminded because you – because of a passing fancy that you might slightly resemble –"
Daniel squeezes harder to make the man shut up. "Hey, guys," he hears Cam call jauntily. Teal'c shifts to nod a greeting to the rest of their team. In a lower voice Cam asks, "What's up?"
The Ori had created Adria, smuggled her into the galaxy as a babe and writ their knowledge into her genes, named her supreme commander and conqueror. They had interfered in the hopes of giving their side an unbeatable advantage.
SG-1 possessed no special powers, no advanced knowledge, no inborn advantage. They weren't chosen but they fight anyways. The Ancients refuse to interfere. But there are ways around even the strictest of rules, loopholes and looser interpretations. Collectively they agree to siphon the energy of believers to its proper place, empowering the unchosen champions without their knowledge – because guiding energy to its rightful owner is not interference but an obligation to ensuring the universe runs smoothly.
Knowledge of this aid from the higher planes is not necessary; SG-1 does not draw strength from the approval of higher beings. They draw strength from their own conviction, their own reasons and logic and values. The Ancients wouldn't favor them otherwise.
It's something the followers of Origin can't understand.
"Oh, nothing," Daniel responds airily. Just catching up with news from the big galaxy, that's all." The trader nods fervently next to him, eyes constantly flitting between the five fugitives crowded around him.
"Hear anything interesting?"
Daniel finally releases the trader. "Nah," he says. "You know how unreliable gossip is."
They leave the tent, Vala calling back to the trembling man "Don't be a stranger!" Teal'c raises an eyebrow as she skips ahead cheerily; behind them, the man sits down in his tent and exhales shakily.
Daniel fills in the others about the latest information. They all agree to quietly retreat to the gate, dialing one of the abandoned way-station planets they hop to just in case they're followed. They'll retreat to their camp, take stock of their supplies, and continue on from there.
A thousand years later people will still talk of the Tau'ri. Their names will be immortalized: Daniel Jackson, Samantha Carter, Teal'c the Jaffa, Cameron Mitchell, Vala Mal Doran. Origin will still have a foothold, but there will also be societies buffering the rest of the galaxy from its incursion, societies honoring SG-1 as much as those who follow Origin demonize them.
Either way, though, they still believe unquestioningly of the group's invincibility, their ability to fight against gods and hold their own, their crazy plans that work when all rules say it shouldn't. To the Ancients siphoning that belief towards its rightful place and to the team of five aliens whose home by birth or adoption was destroyed all those years ago, that is all that matters. As long as the belief holds strong they will continue to trek across the galaxy, fighting for choice and science and logic. They will not scrabble for supplies any longer, having sheltered indebted refugees that eventually become stalwarts against Ori domination.
Despite the homes they are offered on dozens of planets they will not rest either. They will know they are different by now, though they only have theories to explain it, and will feel driven to keep trekking around the universe as one team until the threat they had promised to defeat is finally beaten back to the galaxy they came from. After that, it will be the drive for knowledge, the unending thirst to know what and who is out there that will send them ever onward.
(On Earth, a team of technicians carefully takes readings on the status of the Stargate, checking for any incursion of time distortion through the event horizon. The readings are negligible. On the other side of the wormhole is a planet orbiting a black hole. It will be eons before it wanders close enough to the event horizon to be pulled in completely – but it is close enough that Merlin's phase-shifting weapon, attached to the Antarctic ZPM, could be launched from the surface into the time-distorted space and activated, phase-shift field extending to encompass the planet and transmuting its effects through the Stargate. It was a desperate last-minute plan that miraculously worked.
Even a ZPM can only sustain a field of such magnitude for bare seconds – but those seconds, from the perspective of earth, can last indefinitely. Shielded from even the higher beings, they have been granted safety from the Ori and everyone else in the universe; time indefinite to develop and prepare to once again confront the universe.
Despite protests by certain key members of the Stargate program, it was decided to play dead until Earth had developed significantly advanced technology to confront the galaxy – this time as a dominant player, instead of the perpetual underdog. All those off-world were written off as regrettable casualties that were nevertheless necessary to protect the planet. The Stargate program, barring a skeleton crew of technicians and guards, was retired; the IOA shrank into a small coalition to plan for theoretical eventualities. In a few generations, any suggestions about destroying the phase-shift field were abandoned entirely.
Earth retreats into its own dimension devoid of alien life, and quietly forgot about all but itself. )