Sam Carter looked down at her attire and sighed. Military field uniform was unflattering at the best of time but the brown sackcloth robes provided for workers on this Godforsaken planet were something else. They itched. They scratched. And they all seemed to have been tailored for someone a good deal wider and shorter than Sam Carter.
O'Neill emerged from the bedroom, having just finished shaving in the sink, and despite herself Carter had to stifle a laugh. O'Neill's robes were so short in the arm and leg he looked like he was wearing a woman's nightshirt; albeit one in a rather fetching shade of brown. The hemline of his robes fell only just past his knees.
The day was only really just starting to dawn outside as they began their walk to the palace, there was dew on the grass so opalescent it might have been partially frozen. Their breath steamed in the air as they walked in silence, O'Neill wincing occasionally as he jarred his injured leg on an uneven piece of ground. He kept his gaze firmly on the ground and as the Palace drew nearer Carter found herself following suite.
O'Neill looked upwards and stopped dead, rooted to the spot. Carter looked up too as he halted so suddenly.
The palace was not like the wooden buildings of the village they had come from. Stone built and coldly beautiful in a gothic way the towers rose like so many needles, stabbing at the sky now almost entirely frosty blue with the new day. She felt eyes upon her.
O'Neill collapsed into the mud making her yelp with shock and drop instantly to her knees at his side. His eyes were wide and staring as he shuddered.
"Sir?" she breathed confused. Blood was beginning to drip from his nose as his eyes rolled madly. "Sir?!"
O'Neill could not hear her. He was inside his head once more, reliving the horrific memories from his past.
Carter placed her hands on his shoulders. He screamed, looking up into a fanged grin. Slowly the vision faded and he was looking into the worried face of Sam Carter, his face wet with his own blood.
"Sir?"
"Damn them. Damn them to hell," he muttered.
"Sir are you alright?" Carter asked as he sat up.
His eyes were still wild. "They're watching us. I can *feel* them."
"I know sir. Me too. Is it them that... made you-"
"Yes. They're... warning me...Both of us..." He wiped his nose and blinked, Jack O'Neill once more. "C'mon Carter. Let's get this show over."
He struggled to his feet, squaring his shoulders. Carter gave him a dubious glance.
"Are you sure you're alright sir?"
O'Neill gave her a grey look and she knew better than to say anything else.
The front gates of the palace were large and impressive. The elaborate carvings seemed to move under close scrutiny. "Do we knock?" Carter whispered.
O'Neill grimaced. "I have no idea. I guess we shou-"
A smaller door set in the gate, invisible until opened, opened. "Ah. You're new. Come in."
The man who had opened the door ushered them through. He was small, with a screwed up, pinched kind of face and a limp. The 'click' of his left leg on the polished floors suggested that the cause might be a prosthetic foot.
He consulted a scroll pulled from the pockets of his thick overcoat, reaching almost down to the floor. "Ah yes. O'Neill. You're to work in the training centre. And Carter. You're to work on the *special* project." He looked them up and down. He didn't wear glasses but if he had he would have peered at them over the top. "Oh dear. You poor people. You shouldn't have had to go the provisionals for clothes. The masters ordered the best for you. Some sort of bureaucratical mistake, I assume. We'll stop off at the stores for some better clothes first. Follow me."
They did as instructed, O'Neill already too bone weary to think of any alternative and Carter following her CO instinctively.
The clothes given to them by what transpired to be the palace tailor were far better fitting; the same military green as their SG1 uniforms but of an old fashioned sort of cut. Carter was given breeches, but of a fuller shape and softer material than O'Neill.
After that, another similarly garbed man appeared to lead them away to separate destinations. Carter felt something lurch in the region of her stomach. She read a similar emotion in O'Neill's eyes.
"You'll be okay?" she whispered.
O'Neill met her eyes and she looked down, knowing she had overstepped some mark, insulted the Colonel's pride. Less than a week into capture on an alien planet and already the strict code of military discipline built up over the years between them was slipping. For the first time in a long while she thought of Grant, and a fierce and terribly guilt leapt into her throat making her feel quite sick.
"Look after yourself," he returned, reading some of this in the stony line of her mouth before he was lead away.
"If you would come with me?" asked the man with the wooden leg.
Carter followed him through a maze of corridors. She couldn't be certain, but she had a feeling they were heading downwards.
The carefully carved stone gave way to more rough-cut passages. "These are the original worm-tunnels carved by the ancestors of our masters," explained her guide, "We are nearing their original settlement where many of them still dwell. Do not fear, they will keep out of our way while we are here. Our human minds disturb their peace."
Carter nodded, mouth dry with fear.
They continued onwards, the downward slope becoming more and more noticeable, the dankness in the air growing. Stalactites hung from the ceiling and once more her breath started to steam in the air. Torches burning in brackets on the wall provided a smoky, orange light.
Quite suddenly the passage opened out and they were in a large chamber. The walls were lined with geodes that caught the light of torches, reflecting on the Stargate. It seemed in working order, Carter noted, giving it a brief examination.
"Where's the DHD?" she asked her guide.
The man looked puzzled and she tried to explain. The light of understanding dawned in his eyes. "Ah. Yes. It is here."
He lead her to the DHD, handing Carter a torch so she would be able to see it better. Her face fell. The DHD was comprehensively smashed, the face and crystals underneath shattered. Her stomach contracted with fear. She could see no way of repairing this, even if she could develop a manual way of dialling there was no power source for her to use other than that utilised by the DHD. "I require tools," she said, her voice cold and hard as the slimy walls.
"They shall be provided for you."
The click of his wooden leg faded away into the darkness. Carter buried her face in her hands.
*
O'Neill was lead out of the main palace buildings and into the barracks. He knew they were barracks in his very bones, the soldier part of him felt slightly at ease. He followed his guide all the way to the practise yards.
"You would be O'Neill?"
The speaker was a grim faced, steely haired man. Stocky and slightly accented O'Neill had the strong sensation of being inspected. He stood to attention. "Yes sir."
"What can you do,?"
"Sir?"
"Can you fight with your hands? With a knife? Handle a weapon?"
"Yes sir."
"Prove it." The words were thrown at him, almost cruelly. O'Neill felt very old as a chilly wind whipped around him.
"How?"
"Ilayus! Marc!"the commander called. Two young soldiers approached cautiously from where they had been watching proceedings inside. "These two young men are some of the best in hand-to-hand combat in these barracks. Ilayus is almost as tall as you. Will you fight him?"
O'Neill looked Ilayus over. The man returned his gaze evenly as O'Neill noted with dismay the swell of the young man's muscles. He was broader than O'Neill, athletic, with no silver in his hair or lines around his eyes. O'Neill's leg was still aching terribly and blood was still dried around his nose. However, meeting briefly the eyes of the commander he was bright enough to realise the question was not a question.
*This is stupid. I'm going to get seven kinds of crap beaten out of me.*
He nodded.
Ilayus grinned, beginning to stretch. O'Neill followed suite. He taught hand-to-hand combat to recruits, sure enough. He was one of the most highly qualified combatants in the SGC when it came to fighting bare fisted. But it was not a skill he practised nearly as often as his marksmanship. He was the wrong side of fifty, with stiffness in his knees and he was injured. Not a good condition in which to enter a fight against a man nearly as tall and certainly more broad than he.
"Are you prepared?"
"I am," answered Ilayus and O'Neill realised with a heavy heart his time was up. He took up a guard position, on the tips of his toes as the commander whistled to signal the start of the bout.
Ilayus struck immediately and O'Neill staggered with the force of the blow, his injured leg almost buckling. He retaliated, and Ilayus blocked his punch easily, still grinning.
The smile reminded O'Neill strongly of someone. He moved backwards across the packed dirt of the practise yard, dodging another swift punch and catching the next with a deft lower block.
Ilayus kicked out and O'Neill caught his leg. He was still grinning.
Grant, O'Neill realised suddenly, Ilayus's grin reminded him of Grant's.
O'Neill forced the leg upwards, sending the man sprawling backwards into the dirt. Ilayus rolled immediately but O'Neill was ready for this and kicked out himself, sending the man spinning back down. O'Neill put his boot on Ilayus's chest before the man could get up. His shoulder blades were soaked with sweat, his breathing harsh.
"I yield," Ilayus said sullenly and O'Neill let him stand. The commander was looking at him with respect in his hard eyes.
"You'll do, O'Neill," he said, "The Masters are right, as always. You are a soldier."