Title: What Fools These Mortals Be Part 1: Bottom
Author: Su Freund
Website: www ficwithfins com (insert . instead of spaces in the address)
Status: Series. Part 1 of 3
Category: Angst, Drama (and Jack whumping)
Pairings: None
Spoilers: Minor for Message in a Bottle, Frozen, Abyss
Season: First half of 7
Sequel/Series Info: None
Rating: PG-13
Content Warnings: Contains scenes that might be disturbing to some readers. Allusions to torture and what might be interpreted as activity of a sexual nature. Minor use of bad language.
Summary: Jack wakes alone with no memory of who, what or where he is
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Copyright © 2004 Su Freund
File Size: 53 KB
Archive: My site, Jackfic yes, SJD yes, Gateworld, FanFiction Net
Author's Note: 1. Thanks to William Shakespeare for the title, and the use of some of his words throughout. This is not a sequel to 'Hell is Murky' but could be considered as the second of an occasional 'Shakespeare Series' of stand alone fics (maybe). 2. Thanks also to Lightfoot for the use of the wonderful illustration of Jack for this fic. What a great artist she is and I feel honoured to use her work to illustrate my fic. See her work on my site as a book cover by Fulinn28 at my Fic With Fins website. The original is available to view in the 'Various' artists art gallery on the site. 3. And last, but certainly far from least, thanks to Bonnie for her beta of this fic. Her comments on my original draft version led to many radical changes which have definitely improved it for the better.
What Fools These Mortals Be Part 1: Bottom
He couldn't move, not even to open his eyes. How the hell was he managing to breathe? His whole body hurt. Every muscle felt like it had been stretched to its limit or beyond. It was as if someone was stabbing him with hot knives, and maybe they were, he couldn't tell. How could he know if he couldn't see anything?
The only sense that seemed to be functioning was that of pain; the others appeared to be missing. He was in absolute agony; that was all he knew. It dominated and overwhelmed him. Determinedly, he strained his ears but could hear nothing. If he could open his eyes would he see?
He considered his breathing. It felt wrong. He wasn't getting enough oxygen and his breath was laboured, his body struggling to gasp at the precious air. Each breath tore at his lungs, making him suffer. More pain. God! He hurt everywhere, there was no respite, and it appeared he could do little or nothing about it. He was helpless.
Trying to scream he realised his mouth would not open. The scream stayed inside, ripping at his heart and soul, tearing him apart. Where am I? He asked. He had no memory of where he might have been before he was here; no conceivable way to work out where he was.
Desperately, he tried to search his mind but found nothing. How could someone's mind be so empty? Just the agony; it subjugated everything else. Maybe if it went away he would know where he was, but it showed no signs of abating.
Then a realisation hit him. Who am I? He didn't even know that! The internal scream started again and he faded into oblivion.
The SGC:
The klaxon sounded and General George Hammond stood alertly in the control room waiting for a signal.
"It's SG-1 Sir." Lt. Simmons said eventually.
"Open the iris." Hammond ordered.
"Yes Sir."
Major Carter, Daniel Jackson and Teal'c stepped through the shimmering puddle onto the ramp. No O'Neill. Hell, what now? Hammond thought as he quickly made his way to the gate room.
"Major Carter, report. Where's Colonel O'Neill?" He demanded, noting the shock and devastation on the faces of each team member.
"We...we don't know Sir." She replied.
"Don't know? What happened?" He retorted.
"He... he disappeared Sir."
"Disappeared?" Hammond asked.
"O'Neill was by our side and then he was there no longer, GeneralHammond." Teal'c intervened.
"Poof!" Daniel expanded, his arms opening in a gesture he thought self explanatory. "Although not literally in a puff of smoke. No... not..." He tailed off seeing the shaken and bemused expression on the General's face. He wasn't helping.
"Asgard?" Hammond asked Carter.
"I don't think so Sir." She replied, "He... he literally disappeared Sir. Teal'c is right. One minute he was there, the next gone. No lights, no visual effects, no puffs of smoke, no clues, Sir. Nothing."
The General had a look of horror on his face and knew that, as O'Neill's second in command, Carter would no doubt blame herself.
"So you have no idea where he is?"
"No Sir." She looked uncomfortable, ashamed and confused, and hastily peered at her feet.
Hammond was sure that they would never have left O'Neill if they had other options, and were angry with themselves for being forced to leave him behind. Goddammit, that man was more trouble than a hornet's nest. The team looked exhausted. They had probably spent hours trying to find something to give them a clue as to his whereabouts.
"Major, you would not have left him if you'd any choice, I know that. If you had no clues, you did the right thing coming back. Report to the infirmary and we'll debrief further afterwards." Hammond gave a weary sigh. Now what the hell do we do, he thought?
Coming back to consciousness he was relieved to find that the pain had gone and he could breath more easily. Oh, thank God! He tried to move and found he could twitch his fingers, then managed the whole hand. Risk opening my eyes. he asked himself? Nervously he made an effort to open the lids and found them co-operating. His eyes felt heavy, lashes gummed together and gritty. Someone was sand papering his eyeballs and lids. Despite that, he managed to pry them open. He was surrounded by unremitting greyness. Correction, a heavy mist or fog, that's what it is, he realised. So even with his eyes now open he could see nothing; was no closer to knowing where he was.
Experimentally he tried to sit up. A wave of nausea and dizziness assailed him but he fought it off doggedly. However, he decided to wait a while before trying to stand. Just a little while, he told himself.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
He wondered who was saying that. Should he try to speak? As he considered further he thought the voices might be in his head. They echoed around him like whispers on the wind, but there was no wind. This was very spooky. Go figure!
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
Definitely in his head. Go away! Leave me alone! He replied, but they were relentless.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
The words whipped around his brain, driving him to despair.
Then he thought he saw a shape looming out of the greyness. What was that? It was menacing and gave him a sense of foreboding. The mist was starting to clear a little and he wasn't sure he wanted it to. Perhaps he was better not knowing. As the appearance of the shapes gathered momentum he thought they seemed familiar; maybe they weren't so threatening after all. Trees? Were they trees? He was in a forest then?
Definitely a forest, he was even beginning to see colours; varying shades of green and brown. The mist was moving away more rapidly now and the words stopped abruptly. Silence. Total and utter silence. He could not decide if that was worse than the voices. Shivering with fear, he realised that the mist was not so much lifting, as thinning. The wisps were starting to surround him.
"Fight it, my man, fight it." He said aloud to himself, trying to control his fear. It's unsettling to wake up nowhere, knowing nothing. He should be scared. Scared might be good, actually, get the old adrenaline pumping. His fear vanished abruptly as the wisps enfolded him and hit him with a tidal wave of pure pleasure. When he lay back in response to their seductive touch he heard a low moan escape his lips.
Ecstasy! Wow that felt good. The wisps of mist were doing something to him, dancing around him, touching him, playing with him. His whole body tingled in expectation of a rapturous release; it was glorious.
He was euphoric. Please, yes! He begged the mist; more, more. Oh God yes! This sure beat pain. Something inside was definitely building to a crescendo, in the pit of his stomach and then spreading throughout his body. He panted, trying to catch his breath. Hearing himself growl he knew it was nearly upon him. He was at the crest of the wave and wanted to ride it all the way, and then he plunged over, nearly drowning from the intensity. The thing that he most wanted and needed came and his body shuddered with the pleasure. Yes! He cried it out loud.
Oh blessed release! Tingling everywhere, and engulfed by a feeling of relief, he was infused with happiness and deep satisfaction. Laughing, he thought this was not so bad and he could learn to live with it, would even welcome it. He wanted to beg the wisps for more but resisted that temptation. You can have too much of a good thing.
Instead, once he had recovered his equilibrium and revelled in those glorious feelings, he decided to risk standing and took a look at his surroundings. Forest everywhere and no sign of which way he should go. Even if there was, he wouldn't know where he was going. He had the feeling there was something important to do but couldn't remember what. Dammit, he still couldn't even remember who he was. He started to feel frustrated; despite the awesome sense of joy he had experienced such a short time ago.
The mist still clung to him and his frustration deepened. He could feel himself falling into a pit of despair. Noooooo! He had felt so good just now. Please don't do this to me, he begged. A depression overtook him with such force that he crumpled to the ground. Tears started to fall from his eyes and, despite his best efforts; he could do nothing to stop them. It was as if an external power was forcing him to this act without his consent, and he started to weep uncontrollably.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
They'd come back. The voices. Please... please give me some peace, he begged. But once again they were unrelenting. He could not stop crying, his whole body was wracked with sobs. Inconsolable for a long time, the sobs continued until he thought he could cry no more. Where was all this water coming from? Surely he didn't even contain this much.
Eventually he thought no, I won't let them beat me. He had no clue who they might be but he would fight them anyway. Whoever they were must surely be an enemy. His stubbornness won through and he got himself back to his feet, trying to ignore the whispers and his own desolation. I have to do something positive, he thought. Having seen no obvious direction to follow he struck out randomly into the forest.
His activity calmed him and he managed to fight the hopelessness and despondency. Get back! You are my enemy. I might not know who I am but I do know that. It made him feel slightly better that he knew something. Maybe he knew other things too. It gave him a glimmer of hope and it was enough to send the voices away.
A circle. Why was he thinking of a circle? An image kept coming to his head as if trying to force him to remember it. In the fringes of his mind it was familiar but he could not grasp it. It was frustrating. Somehow, he knew it was important. He needed to find it. Where could he start?
The forest seemed never ending and everywhere looked the same. He could not find any trees that looked individual enough to use as landmarks. For all he knew he was wandering around in circles. Climbing one of the trees to get some bearings turned out to be fruitless. The forest stretched as far as the eye could see; nothing broke the landscape.
The sky was blue but he looked all around him and could see no sun. Nothing to guide him. No sun? Wasn't that a little odd? He wasn't totally sure. Maybe it was normal. Maybe he had imagined the existence of suns. He wasn't sure of anything. How could someone who didn't even know who they were be certain? He would just have to carry on and hope it got him somewhere, so he climbed back down again.
Realising he was thirsty he decided to think about supplies. He seemed to have none. Wasn't it unusual for him not to carry something with him? How did he know that? It was a hunch but he couldn't trust it. He couldn't trust anything in this place. Questions - he had lots of them, but answers he lacked in abundance.
Attached to his belt was a large, vicious looking knife. This could do some serious damage. He wondered whether he knew how to use it effectively and figured he probably did. In a pocket he found matches, but that was all. He seemed woefully ill equipped; it wasn't much to live on.
Taking the knife in his hands, he tried twirling it round and found he was adept. It felt good and right to hold it, as if it belonged. Yep, that confirmed it; he definitely knew how to use one of these things. Aiming for a spot on a tree he balanced the knife with the eye of an expert, throwing a bulls eye without hesitation. Good. I have at least one skill that might prove useful, he thought with pride, and smiled to himself. I'll make it.
He had to find some water, without which the making it option became kind of hard. Then he heard it. It sounded like flowing water and he followed the sound. This made him ponder the almost total lack of other sound. Shouldn't there be birds? This was a forest. Maybe forests didn't normally have birds either. His singular lack of certainty and knowledge perturbed him.
Curious that water should appear just as the thought entered his mind, he suspected there was something very unique about this place - it was unreal, a figment, conjured by whoever or whatever kept him captive here. The voices in his head were his captors, vicious and taunting, inclined to both hurt and pleasure him at their whim.
He felt pretty sure he must be a prisoner, but had no idea what he was being punished for. Maybe his loss of memory formed part of the punishment; a new born babe in an adult body. That was hell indeed. Admittedly, he was not new born as he could function on his own, walk, talk, climb trees, use a knife; he was fairly confident he could do a whole heap of other things too, and hoped they would come to him when the time was right. However, the metaphor seemed appropriate as he still remembered nothing of himself or his life before he had awoken on the forest floor.
Believing his presence there a punishment gave him a small measure of comfort. He probably deserved whatever his captors wanted to dish out. If he deserved it, he could take whatever they gave and be grateful that it wasn't worse. Punishment ends sometimes doesn't it? He would stubbornly survive until they were finished with him. It was important that he not give up hope, or life. The former would fuel his determination to grasp at the latter, kicking and screaming if necessary.
Another noise distracted him from the sound of the running water; a low growl. He stopped to look around and could see nothing moving. Cautiously, he moved on, his eyes and ears wide open, preparing for whatever might befall him now. He would be ready - to fight and defeat whatever it was.
The growl got closer and he could hear the rustle of the undergrowth as whatever it was closed on it's goal. Figuring its goal was him, he took the knife in his hand again, ready to defend himself from all comers.
Then it appeared close by, watching it's prey with black and dangerous eyes. It was a large cat of some kind, wild and strong. He could see it's tensed muscles and admired it's sleek lines and unwavering gaze. He returned that gaze so that his own dark eyes met those of his potential foe. He wanted it to know he was just as dangerous as it was. You won't take me without a fight, those eyes said, you risk much to threaten me. He was relieved to have an enemy that he could see, instead of the mist that was so nebulous, but equally hazardous.
The large cat, which he could not identify, stood ready to pounce on it's prey. He tasted his fear of the creature, knowing that this animal could kill him with a swipe of it's sharp claws or bite from it's powerful teeth and jaws. The cat stared, sensing menace from it's prey, but hungry enough to chance it's luck.
He stood perfectly still while he watched it appraise him, tensing his own muscles in preparation for the attack he knew to be inevitable. Fight or flight? His fear wanted him to take flight, run as fast as he could away from this creature. To do that courted almost certain death in it's deadly paws. The adrenaline pumping through his body kept him there, facing his fear and ready to fight for life.
Especially alert, he saw it's slight movement, just before it pounced, and this is what saved him. The creature was upon him but his knife struck the deadly blow, although not before it's large claws had ripped at his jacket at the skin beneath. He felt the skin on his chest tear open, a painful wound which sent blood spattering both himself and his foe. The body of his enemy sagged on top of him as it took it's final breath, the knife deep in it's heart, it's full weight crushing him painfully beneath it.
The animal's blood mixed with his own. He was surrounded and covered by the red stuff of life and knew not how much of it was his or the big cat's. Momentarily he was frozen beneath it's body as it's life force flowed over him, the sickly sweet smell both nauseating and exhilarating at once. His victory gave him the strength to push the heavy creature off him, saddened that he had needed to kill the graceful beast so that he could live.
He lay for a short while to gather more strength, knowing that he had to deal with his own injury. He needed that water more than ever, to drink, to clean. Without it he was a dead man. The wound in his chest hurt like crazy but he'd suffered worse at the hands of his tormentors. If he could survive the pain that the mist had visited upon him, surely he could survive this. Not if he didn't stop himself bleeding to death.
That thought gave him the strength to sit and look at himself. However, with so much blood, it was hard to see how bad his injury was. So he got up and stumbled weakly towards the sound of water again. He was alive, that was all that counted right now. He just had to stay that way.
When he reached the stream, it looked clear and inviting. Should he drink from it? For some reason it nagged him that he was reluctant. Did he have reason to fear drinking from it? Hell! It was this or die of thirst in the end. So he knelt and drank. It tasted good, and he realised this was the first time he had tasted anything at all. The water started to quench his thirst. He hadn't realised how much he had needed to drink. Maybe this would help to clear his mind.
Then he removed his jacket and T-shirt, which was badly torn from the clawing, and washed his chest, tingeing the water pink until it dissipated into the running stream. It wasn't as bad as it had seemed, the brute strength of the animal diluted by his own defence and counter-attack. His will had saved him, along with the knife he had used so skilfully in his short struggle with the beast.
He had no illusions that he had won the fight, but rather, the graceful cat had lost. He figured it would never have attacked if it hadn't been starving, and it was no doubt weakened by it's lack of food. He'd been fortunate; it hadn't.
The blood still seeped from his wound, but no longer flowed freely. It seemed relatively superficial, but if it weren't he had no sensible means to staunch it. Eyeing the T-shirt, he wondered whether it would make a decent bandage but the wound ran the whole length of his chest, fortuitously not reaching the softer and more dangerous areas beneath his protective breast plate and rib cage. If he lay here a while he could outwait it, allow it to stop bleeding before he moved on. Lucky son of a bitch, you should be dead, he told himself.
Later, when he had recovered sufficiently to consider moving once again, he wished he had some means to carry the water. He decided to sit for a while and keep drinking to replenish his body's needs. He must have shed a whole lot of water when his captors forced him to tears earlier. Those bastards had made him do that. he'd show them!
He knew he shouldn't let himself get dehydrated, especially when he'd suffered blood loss, but wasn't entirely sure how he knew anything about that. At least it was something else he knew. Another little piece of certainty in his wholly uncertain world.
So he relaxed, letting his strength come back to him bit by bit. As he recovered he took his clothing to the shallow waters, trying to rid them of the blood that had soaked them. These were stains he would never remove, stains of both life and death; perhaps it was fitting if he couldn't wash it all out. Nevertheless, he did his best, eradicating what he could of the excess blood and diluting the cloying stench that pervaded. Then he lay to rest again as his clothing dried in the warmth of the day.
Everything else could wait. He could better continue his journey fully rested. He just wished he knew where that journey was taking him, what he was aiming for. Survival, life, that was more than sufficient purpose for now, he told himself, decisively, all fear gone for now and replaced by stubborn resolve.
The SGC:
The three remaining members of SG-1 stood in front of the outgoing wormhole, alongside SG-9. Hammond had agreed they should return to the planet to search for clues to O'Neill's whereabouts, this time with help. They'd sent a UAV, which had found very little, certainly no signs of life, but it indicated some ruins approximately 9 klicks from the gate, which was further than they had got before their CO's sudden disappearance had stopped their exploration.
Daniel persuaded the General that they might find clues at those ruins. Maybe knowledge of the civilisations that had inhabited this planet would help them determine where O'Neill might have gone. The additional pairs of eyes accompanying them might spot some little thing, anything, that could help them resolve the puzzle of Jack's disappearance.
The three were damned if they were going to helplessly sit on their hands back at base while O'Neill suffered God only knows what at the hands of his mysterious captors. Action, they had to take action; they had to find him and bring him home to them. His disappearance was unacceptable to all three and they would not rest until he was found.
Hammond knew this about them but also realised that he could not spend resources on this search forever, with no reward. He was uncertain of what risks his people took by going back, and feared he might lose more of them before this mystery was resolved - if it was ever resolved. He didn't like to think of that and was more than willing to let them try for now. While there were unexplored avenues he would not give up on his favoured Colonel either.
The unofficial motto of the SGC was never leave anyone behind, an ethic instilled by Hammond's own quiet determination, and O'Neill's often more noisy and frequently voiced one. He knew O'Neill well enough to understand that the man would never give up while breath still remained in his body. That thought had often given Hammond strength in times of adversity.
This was not the first time that O'Neill had been taken from them, and probably not the last. The man had a knack of surviving against all odds, and this he had passed onto his team. It comforted Hammond to know that, if he was still alive, Jack would be fighting every inch of the way, desperately trying to find his way home again. He would not let O'Neill down if he could avoid it.
So he would risk the lives of his people, carry on using whatever resources he could. Only when the risk outweighed the prize would Hammond give up, as he had reluctantly done in the past, only to be confounded by Jack's obstinate resolve yet again.
When he woke he couldn't recall having felt tired. Had it been the water that made him sleep? What water? He was no longer by a stream; no longer in a forest. Had he ever been there? He couldn't be sure. It unsettled him as he believed he was normally much more certain of things than this. However, he couldn't be sure of that either.
Jack! That was a name wasn't it? Was it his name? He had no idea whether it was or not; it had just entered his mind unbidden, like the circle. Maybe it was the name of a friend. Although he forlornly had to admit that it didn't seem like he had any of those in this desolate place. He wondered about that and was overwhelmed by loneliness.
There were few trees here. It was rugged heath land and he could see nothing but heather and a sparse growth of grasses and bushes wherever he looked. The depressing place enhanced his isolation, and deep, dark feelings of loneliness and sadness invaded him once more. He was lost and friendless with no obvious means of survival in this bleak landscape.
As if his misery was not enough, a searing agony shot through him like a bolt of lightening. He screamed, and it shattered the silence. Contorting with the torment, he could feel the sweat all over his body, sending shivers through him which merely added to his woes. He was shaking so much that he was surprised his body didn't just fall apart from it. Stop, please stop!
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
Nooooooo! Not again. Anything but this. The words echoed through his mind once more, over and over. He couldn't think straight; they were overpowering and increasingly loud and invasive. They scared him as their appearance seemed to bring him great pain, and anguish. He could not control it, or his emotions, when they attacked, and hated that powerlessness.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
As he writhed under the control of his captors, flashes of a past life came to mind. He was strapped to a chair, wires attached to his naked body and his tormentors throwing a switch that sent an electric current of pure agony through his body. Acid burned holes in his clothing and skin, eating into his insides, killing him. The stench of death, urine and vacated bowls. The dread of a door opening and someone coming to take him to his torturers. It all jumbled up inside his head and he didn't know whether it had been real. Was this what his life had been?
He gripped his head, which felt it was about to explode with the pain, his ear drums seemingly on the verge of bursting from the decibel levels. Should he pretend to give up, make them think he bowed to their will? Living to fight another day seemed like the sensible option. Please, please, please stop, he begged, I'll do anything.
Abruptly it ceased. He wondered what he had promised to do, couldn't remember anything specific and hoped he remembered so the agony would not come back. He lay still for a while, trying to recover himself. The memories of the torture were almost as bad as the real thing and his nerve endings felt on edge as if anticipating a further onslaught.
He was getting confused, unable to tell if this was really happening to him or just a figment, as he suspected. Whatever the truth, he could not deny that the pain felt real, and he could probably die in this place. He could not recall nightmares being this vivid and real, but what did he know? Forcing himself to think about something else he made the memories recede.
I wonder what I look like, he thought. I wish I'd looked at my reflection in the water while I had the chance. He looked at his hands to give him a clue as to how old he might be and had no idea. His hands looked mature; no kid or teenager then, not even particularly young.
Pulling some hair from his head he studied it. Grey. An old man then? Not that old, maybe. Hadn't he climbed a tree earlier? Forty? Fifty? More? He grasped for clues, partly stripping himself hurriedly to look at his body for other evidence. Grey hair on the chest; muscular though and looking pretty fit. It wasn't much help. He could be old and work out a lot. He finally settled on fifty or so. It was as good a guess as any.
Colonel. He thought the word should be familiar but could not work out what it meant. It might as well have been a foreign language. Maybe it was. Colonel? What the hell was that and why had his mind suddenly thrust it at him? It was trying to send him a message but he couldn't understand it's purpose. Biting back tears of frustration he wondered why 'they' put that in his head but did not tell him what it meant? Once again he knew it was important, but not why.
A feeling of total peace suddenly came over him and he was surprised. Why? Had he had a revelation they, whoever they were, wanted him to have? Was it something to do with the word Colonel?
Once more his body was suffused with euphoria. It was that wonderful feeling again. Oh, yes please! Was this meant as some form of encouragement or reward? If so, he wished he could remember more. Oh boy, this felt so good. A warmth inside was building rapidly, quickly becoming a fire that needed to be quenched and he groaned with the pleasure.
The wisps of mist whipped around him, quickening their pace. Wow! No, no not so quickly, please, he begged, wanting this rapture to last. They slowed to meet his demands and he became intoxicated with delight. He could almost hear them. Not saying 'are you worthy?' this time, but something else. He did not know what and neither did he care as he was totally enthralled. This was seventh heaven!
Was there a way to stop himself reaching that glorious peak? He was torn between wanting it to last and the total elation and gratification that would come from that torturous release. He wanted and craved it while, simultaneously, relishing the fever that grew within him at the whisper of the wisps. Whisper to me more, more, he pleaded fervently.
More flashes, good things this time. A woman with blonde hair, her perfume exhilarating as they copulated, naked and exposed, on a large double bed. A passionate kiss in the moonlight with a young, dark haired girl, eager to please and allowing so much more than he had expected. A blonde again, astride his body, an exultant and triumphant screech coming from her mouth as he also cried aloud with pleasure. The same blonde? A name? Sam? No, Sarah; he was pretty sure of that, whoever she was.
The flashes ceased as the needs of his body dictated his full participation. He didn't know how long the rapture lasted but he would reach the precipice soon and tumble over into the chasm. Oh joy! He could no longer stop himself, no longer wished to. His breath quickened and his moans kept pace with it. Suddenly he reached the top and toppled.
Oh glory be! It was exquisite; so much more than anything he had experienced with the blonde or brunette of his memory. This was totally different and truly awesome.
As he lay in his paradise he realised that if this should happen too often he would never get anywhere; it was sapping his strength. He must resist its embrace next time it seduced him.
Getting up at last, he again looked for a sign of which direction to take and found none. The sky was no longer blue, but dull and murky. There was nothing but sparse vegetation to relieve the dreary landscape. He'd preferred the forest, however unrelenting it had seemed. This place was forbidding and gloomy. Once again he set off in a random direction.
Hunger forced him to look around for a likely source of food. There appeared to be none. He patted his pockets again knowing they were empty, then found something he was sure had not been there previously - an energy bar. Weirdly convenient. Was this a dream? If it was it was a midsummer night's one with him firmly cast in the role of Bottom. He chuckled at that thought. He could remember Shakespeare but not his own name?
"Don't poke your irony out Jack." He muttered aloud to himself.
Jack? He had called himself Jack. Okay, now he was getting somewhere. The name must belong to him, right? You don't call yourself by someone else's name; that would be stupid. Good, Jack it is then. A nice solid sounding name. He wondered if he looked like a Jack.
He eyed the energy bar suspiciously. Surely this was too real to be a dream, even one brought on by the fairy folk - despite an energy bar that seemed to appear like magic. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth old man, he told himself, you need sustenance. Unwrapping it, he ate slowly, savouring its sweet taste. Mmmmm! That was good.
Feeling much refreshed he walked, and walked, and then walked some more. He was still getting nowhere. Maybe he wasn't meant to. Then what was his purpose? Why was he here? There must be a logical explanation but he could think of none, except his conclusion that he was being punished. So be it. But if that was so, why those glorious feelings of pleasure? It was a puzzle.
O'Neill. Once again the word entered his head unbidden. O'Neill? What was that? It sounded like a name. He thought about it. Jack O'Neill had a ring of familiarity. Colonel Jack O'Neill? Yes, much better. A name, his name. He was fairly convinced it was his name and was proud of himself for remembering it at last. Give yourself a pat on the back O'Neill, he thought.
The remembrance did nothing to help. A name is only a name. Who is Colonel Jack O'Neill? He didn't know.
He felt the soft whisper of paradise, like waves lapping gently at his feet. Titania! Perhaps she's come to lay him on her bed of flowers and command her troupe to serve his whim. Having got Midsummer Night's Dream on his mind he couldn't seem to shift it. A love potion was working its way to his soul and he would be lost forever.
He told himself that he should not associate these feelings with a woman, even a fairy from a play; he would lose himself to it. Continue to think of it as...well... it, Jack, he lectured. No... yes... don't! He tried to resist it's call as it teased him, but it would not loosen its grasp.
Instead it whipped around him again, this time like slender tendrils brushing his skin, urging him on to enjoyment. No! Again he tried to pull himself away from it but was unable to prevent it's caress. The mist swirled gently, taunting him seductively. It dared him to fight but he was already helpless in it's embrace.
He gasped with joy as it inspired his body to react without his conscious thought. Once more he writhed in his bliss. This time the mist was deliberately taking its time, as if in slow motion. It was unbearable whilst still marvellous. Agony and ecstasy, two sides of the same coin.
Then the real torment started and he almost welcomed it. His head throbbed, his throat was sore. It moved down his body, ravaging him in its wake; his neck, shoulders, arms, chest. He thought his heart would stop with the pain. His stomach, his groin. Christ! The mist continued to entrance him, transporting him to delight while still merciless in it's exquisite agony. He savoured and revelled in it. The hell gave way to total paradise once more and he cried aloud in his exaltation.
It took him to the brink, then taunted him once more by stopping. No! Don't stop. It wanted him to beg, so he did. Please, please! He could feel the sweat pouring from him, dampening his clothes as he struggled in his sweet torment. I beg you; make love to me, he screamed aloud. But it left him bereft and unfulfilled.
The suffering started again moments later. No ecstasy, merely agony. A great deal of it. This time he was screaming at his ordeal, more sweat joining the other to soak him thoroughly. He passed out... and woke by a large lake. The scenery was beautiful and reminded him of... something... somewhere. Minnesota sprang into his mind.
What was Minnesota? A place? A person? He didn't know and it frustrated him. He was still damp from the sweat although the pain had subsided. He went to the lakeside and tried the water. It seemed okay so he drank.
Quickly stripping off his clothes, he splashed into the water to bathe. It was cold but refreshing. He would stay in here a while. He swam and dived under the surface, rubbing at his body and hair to clean it as much as possible. Then he lay back and floated, allowing himself to drift.
There was no logic to the pain, or the pleasure. He had thought the ecstasy was a prize for remembering something he needed to recall, for them. He had remembered his name and believed he was being rewarded when his body had been suffused with joy and elation. However, it had turned on him, taunting with equal parts pain and pleasure, and then left him to suffer an almost unendurable torture until he'd passed out.
Once again he had recalled fleeting memories. Someone held their hand up to him and he fell to his knees as the light from the hand grabbed at his pain centres and invaded his brain. He was pinned to a wall, a long piece of metal through his shoulder; unbearable heat, and intolerable pain, both seemingly unending. He was dying, a virus attacking his body, a high fever which burned him up, covered in sweat, nauseous and unable to breath properly.
The mist joined him once again as he lay there, and it took him in its domineering grip, erasing those torments from his mind in an instant. He smiled rapturously. It had never finished what it had started before and he wished for it to now, not even attempting to resist.
Once again it seduced him slowly, tickling and teasing as its tendrils gently caressed. Yes, take me, possess me, he whispered back to it's song of love. I want this; I want this forever. It danced around him, cavorting and exuberant. He danced right along with it, returning it's enthusiasm. It whipped him up to a frenzy and he bit his bottom lip with desire and longing. I'm yours, yes. I love only you, I want only you, forever. He could feel its pleasure at his words as it licked at him. Yes, Titania, my love I'll be here always. Please take me, own me, do with me what you will. I am utterly yours. He surrendered himself to it totally and it signalled it's joy and brought him his own.
It was better than before, a mutual passion that refused to be sated for an age. He hadn't believed it could be any better. Each nerve of his body sang it's pleasure and begged for liberation; a heavenly rhapsody. He heard it whisper, 'yes Jack you are mine forever' and whispered back 'yes my love, yes, oh yes!' He was so close to that perfection, the pinnacle of his goal. Yes! Take me, have me, hold me, love me, kill me.
The mist sighed into his ear and he reached to touch, embracing it. Oh God, don't stop, please don't stop. He could hear his breath rasping and ragged as it kissed him gently. Take me, own me, possess me, he said again. I want you, I need you, I love you. Yes! They cried in unison and he shook and shuddered with his unshackling from it's grasp.
Immediately, he missed it's touch and the hold it had on him and reached for it, wanting. Don't go. Please don't leave. But his pleas went unanswered as he was left alone once more.
TBC in Part 2: Titania...
Author: Su Freund
Website: www ficwithfins com (insert . instead of spaces in the address)
Status: Series. Part 1 of 3
Category: Angst, Drama (and Jack whumping)
Pairings: None
Spoilers: Minor for Message in a Bottle, Frozen, Abyss
Season: First half of 7
Sequel/Series Info: None
Rating: PG-13
Content Warnings: Contains scenes that might be disturbing to some readers. Allusions to torture and what might be interpreted as activity of a sexual nature. Minor use of bad language.
Summary: Jack wakes alone with no memory of who, what or where he is
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Copyright © 2004 Su Freund
File Size: 53 KB
Archive: My site, Jackfic yes, SJD yes, Gateworld, FanFiction Net
Author's Note: 1. Thanks to William Shakespeare for the title, and the use of some of his words throughout. This is not a sequel to 'Hell is Murky' but could be considered as the second of an occasional 'Shakespeare Series' of stand alone fics (maybe). 2. Thanks also to Lightfoot for the use of the wonderful illustration of Jack for this fic. What a great artist she is and I feel honoured to use her work to illustrate my fic. See her work on my site as a book cover by Fulinn28 at my Fic With Fins website. The original is available to view in the 'Various' artists art gallery on the site. 3. And last, but certainly far from least, thanks to Bonnie for her beta of this fic. Her comments on my original draft version led to many radical changes which have definitely improved it for the better.
What Fools These Mortals Be Part 1: Bottom
He couldn't move, not even to open his eyes. How the hell was he managing to breathe? His whole body hurt. Every muscle felt like it had been stretched to its limit or beyond. It was as if someone was stabbing him with hot knives, and maybe they were, he couldn't tell. How could he know if he couldn't see anything?
The only sense that seemed to be functioning was that of pain; the others appeared to be missing. He was in absolute agony; that was all he knew. It dominated and overwhelmed him. Determinedly, he strained his ears but could hear nothing. If he could open his eyes would he see?
He considered his breathing. It felt wrong. He wasn't getting enough oxygen and his breath was laboured, his body struggling to gasp at the precious air. Each breath tore at his lungs, making him suffer. More pain. God! He hurt everywhere, there was no respite, and it appeared he could do little or nothing about it. He was helpless.
Trying to scream he realised his mouth would not open. The scream stayed inside, ripping at his heart and soul, tearing him apart. Where am I? He asked. He had no memory of where he might have been before he was here; no conceivable way to work out where he was.
Desperately, he tried to search his mind but found nothing. How could someone's mind be so empty? Just the agony; it subjugated everything else. Maybe if it went away he would know where he was, but it showed no signs of abating.
Then a realisation hit him. Who am I? He didn't even know that! The internal scream started again and he faded into oblivion.
The SGC:
The klaxon sounded and General George Hammond stood alertly in the control room waiting for a signal.
"It's SG-1 Sir." Lt. Simmons said eventually.
"Open the iris." Hammond ordered.
"Yes Sir."
Major Carter, Daniel Jackson and Teal'c stepped through the shimmering puddle onto the ramp. No O'Neill. Hell, what now? Hammond thought as he quickly made his way to the gate room.
"Major Carter, report. Where's Colonel O'Neill?" He demanded, noting the shock and devastation on the faces of each team member.
"We...we don't know Sir." She replied.
"Don't know? What happened?" He retorted.
"He... he disappeared Sir."
"Disappeared?" Hammond asked.
"O'Neill was by our side and then he was there no longer, GeneralHammond." Teal'c intervened.
"Poof!" Daniel expanded, his arms opening in a gesture he thought self explanatory. "Although not literally in a puff of smoke. No... not..." He tailed off seeing the shaken and bemused expression on the General's face. He wasn't helping.
"Asgard?" Hammond asked Carter.
"I don't think so Sir." She replied, "He... he literally disappeared Sir. Teal'c is right. One minute he was there, the next gone. No lights, no visual effects, no puffs of smoke, no clues, Sir. Nothing."
The General had a look of horror on his face and knew that, as O'Neill's second in command, Carter would no doubt blame herself.
"So you have no idea where he is?"
"No Sir." She looked uncomfortable, ashamed and confused, and hastily peered at her feet.
Hammond was sure that they would never have left O'Neill if they had other options, and were angry with themselves for being forced to leave him behind. Goddammit, that man was more trouble than a hornet's nest. The team looked exhausted. They had probably spent hours trying to find something to give them a clue as to his whereabouts.
"Major, you would not have left him if you'd any choice, I know that. If you had no clues, you did the right thing coming back. Report to the infirmary and we'll debrief further afterwards." Hammond gave a weary sigh. Now what the hell do we do, he thought?
Coming back to consciousness he was relieved to find that the pain had gone and he could breath more easily. Oh, thank God! He tried to move and found he could twitch his fingers, then managed the whole hand. Risk opening my eyes. he asked himself? Nervously he made an effort to open the lids and found them co-operating. His eyes felt heavy, lashes gummed together and gritty. Someone was sand papering his eyeballs and lids. Despite that, he managed to pry them open. He was surrounded by unremitting greyness. Correction, a heavy mist or fog, that's what it is, he realised. So even with his eyes now open he could see nothing; was no closer to knowing where he was.
Experimentally he tried to sit up. A wave of nausea and dizziness assailed him but he fought it off doggedly. However, he decided to wait a while before trying to stand. Just a little while, he told himself.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
He wondered who was saying that. Should he try to speak? As he considered further he thought the voices might be in his head. They echoed around him like whispers on the wind, but there was no wind. This was very spooky. Go figure!
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
Definitely in his head. Go away! Leave me alone! He replied, but they were relentless.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
The words whipped around his brain, driving him to despair.
Then he thought he saw a shape looming out of the greyness. What was that? It was menacing and gave him a sense of foreboding. The mist was starting to clear a little and he wasn't sure he wanted it to. Perhaps he was better not knowing. As the appearance of the shapes gathered momentum he thought they seemed familiar; maybe they weren't so threatening after all. Trees? Were they trees? He was in a forest then?
Definitely a forest, he was even beginning to see colours; varying shades of green and brown. The mist was moving away more rapidly now and the words stopped abruptly. Silence. Total and utter silence. He could not decide if that was worse than the voices. Shivering with fear, he realised that the mist was not so much lifting, as thinning. The wisps were starting to surround him.
"Fight it, my man, fight it." He said aloud to himself, trying to control his fear. It's unsettling to wake up nowhere, knowing nothing. He should be scared. Scared might be good, actually, get the old adrenaline pumping. His fear vanished abruptly as the wisps enfolded him and hit him with a tidal wave of pure pleasure. When he lay back in response to their seductive touch he heard a low moan escape his lips.
Ecstasy! Wow that felt good. The wisps of mist were doing something to him, dancing around him, touching him, playing with him. His whole body tingled in expectation of a rapturous release; it was glorious.
He was euphoric. Please, yes! He begged the mist; more, more. Oh God yes! This sure beat pain. Something inside was definitely building to a crescendo, in the pit of his stomach and then spreading throughout his body. He panted, trying to catch his breath. Hearing himself growl he knew it was nearly upon him. He was at the crest of the wave and wanted to ride it all the way, and then he plunged over, nearly drowning from the intensity. The thing that he most wanted and needed came and his body shuddered with the pleasure. Yes! He cried it out loud.
Oh blessed release! Tingling everywhere, and engulfed by a feeling of relief, he was infused with happiness and deep satisfaction. Laughing, he thought this was not so bad and he could learn to live with it, would even welcome it. He wanted to beg the wisps for more but resisted that temptation. You can have too much of a good thing.
Instead, once he had recovered his equilibrium and revelled in those glorious feelings, he decided to risk standing and took a look at his surroundings. Forest everywhere and no sign of which way he should go. Even if there was, he wouldn't know where he was going. He had the feeling there was something important to do but couldn't remember what. Dammit, he still couldn't even remember who he was. He started to feel frustrated; despite the awesome sense of joy he had experienced such a short time ago.
The mist still clung to him and his frustration deepened. He could feel himself falling into a pit of despair. Noooooo! He had felt so good just now. Please don't do this to me, he begged. A depression overtook him with such force that he crumpled to the ground. Tears started to fall from his eyes and, despite his best efforts; he could do nothing to stop them. It was as if an external power was forcing him to this act without his consent, and he started to weep uncontrollably.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
They'd come back. The voices. Please... please give me some peace, he begged. But once again they were unrelenting. He could not stop crying, his whole body was wracked with sobs. Inconsolable for a long time, the sobs continued until he thought he could cry no more. Where was all this water coming from? Surely he didn't even contain this much.
Eventually he thought no, I won't let them beat me. He had no clue who they might be but he would fight them anyway. Whoever they were must surely be an enemy. His stubbornness won through and he got himself back to his feet, trying to ignore the whispers and his own desolation. I have to do something positive, he thought. Having seen no obvious direction to follow he struck out randomly into the forest.
His activity calmed him and he managed to fight the hopelessness and despondency. Get back! You are my enemy. I might not know who I am but I do know that. It made him feel slightly better that he knew something. Maybe he knew other things too. It gave him a glimmer of hope and it was enough to send the voices away.
A circle. Why was he thinking of a circle? An image kept coming to his head as if trying to force him to remember it. In the fringes of his mind it was familiar but he could not grasp it. It was frustrating. Somehow, he knew it was important. He needed to find it. Where could he start?
The forest seemed never ending and everywhere looked the same. He could not find any trees that looked individual enough to use as landmarks. For all he knew he was wandering around in circles. Climbing one of the trees to get some bearings turned out to be fruitless. The forest stretched as far as the eye could see; nothing broke the landscape.
The sky was blue but he looked all around him and could see no sun. Nothing to guide him. No sun? Wasn't that a little odd? He wasn't totally sure. Maybe it was normal. Maybe he had imagined the existence of suns. He wasn't sure of anything. How could someone who didn't even know who they were be certain? He would just have to carry on and hope it got him somewhere, so he climbed back down again.
Realising he was thirsty he decided to think about supplies. He seemed to have none. Wasn't it unusual for him not to carry something with him? How did he know that? It was a hunch but he couldn't trust it. He couldn't trust anything in this place. Questions - he had lots of them, but answers he lacked in abundance.
Attached to his belt was a large, vicious looking knife. This could do some serious damage. He wondered whether he knew how to use it effectively and figured he probably did. In a pocket he found matches, but that was all. He seemed woefully ill equipped; it wasn't much to live on.
Taking the knife in his hands, he tried twirling it round and found he was adept. It felt good and right to hold it, as if it belonged. Yep, that confirmed it; he definitely knew how to use one of these things. Aiming for a spot on a tree he balanced the knife with the eye of an expert, throwing a bulls eye without hesitation. Good. I have at least one skill that might prove useful, he thought with pride, and smiled to himself. I'll make it.
He had to find some water, without which the making it option became kind of hard. Then he heard it. It sounded like flowing water and he followed the sound. This made him ponder the almost total lack of other sound. Shouldn't there be birds? This was a forest. Maybe forests didn't normally have birds either. His singular lack of certainty and knowledge perturbed him.
Curious that water should appear just as the thought entered his mind, he suspected there was something very unique about this place - it was unreal, a figment, conjured by whoever or whatever kept him captive here. The voices in his head were his captors, vicious and taunting, inclined to both hurt and pleasure him at their whim.
He felt pretty sure he must be a prisoner, but had no idea what he was being punished for. Maybe his loss of memory formed part of the punishment; a new born babe in an adult body. That was hell indeed. Admittedly, he was not new born as he could function on his own, walk, talk, climb trees, use a knife; he was fairly confident he could do a whole heap of other things too, and hoped they would come to him when the time was right. However, the metaphor seemed appropriate as he still remembered nothing of himself or his life before he had awoken on the forest floor.
Believing his presence there a punishment gave him a small measure of comfort. He probably deserved whatever his captors wanted to dish out. If he deserved it, he could take whatever they gave and be grateful that it wasn't worse. Punishment ends sometimes doesn't it? He would stubbornly survive until they were finished with him. It was important that he not give up hope, or life. The former would fuel his determination to grasp at the latter, kicking and screaming if necessary.
Another noise distracted him from the sound of the running water; a low growl. He stopped to look around and could see nothing moving. Cautiously, he moved on, his eyes and ears wide open, preparing for whatever might befall him now. He would be ready - to fight and defeat whatever it was.
The growl got closer and he could hear the rustle of the undergrowth as whatever it was closed on it's goal. Figuring its goal was him, he took the knife in his hand again, ready to defend himself from all comers.
Then it appeared close by, watching it's prey with black and dangerous eyes. It was a large cat of some kind, wild and strong. He could see it's tensed muscles and admired it's sleek lines and unwavering gaze. He returned that gaze so that his own dark eyes met those of his potential foe. He wanted it to know he was just as dangerous as it was. You won't take me without a fight, those eyes said, you risk much to threaten me. He was relieved to have an enemy that he could see, instead of the mist that was so nebulous, but equally hazardous.
The large cat, which he could not identify, stood ready to pounce on it's prey. He tasted his fear of the creature, knowing that this animal could kill him with a swipe of it's sharp claws or bite from it's powerful teeth and jaws. The cat stared, sensing menace from it's prey, but hungry enough to chance it's luck.
He stood perfectly still while he watched it appraise him, tensing his own muscles in preparation for the attack he knew to be inevitable. Fight or flight? His fear wanted him to take flight, run as fast as he could away from this creature. To do that courted almost certain death in it's deadly paws. The adrenaline pumping through his body kept him there, facing his fear and ready to fight for life.
Especially alert, he saw it's slight movement, just before it pounced, and this is what saved him. The creature was upon him but his knife struck the deadly blow, although not before it's large claws had ripped at his jacket at the skin beneath. He felt the skin on his chest tear open, a painful wound which sent blood spattering both himself and his foe. The body of his enemy sagged on top of him as it took it's final breath, the knife deep in it's heart, it's full weight crushing him painfully beneath it.
The animal's blood mixed with his own. He was surrounded and covered by the red stuff of life and knew not how much of it was his or the big cat's. Momentarily he was frozen beneath it's body as it's life force flowed over him, the sickly sweet smell both nauseating and exhilarating at once. His victory gave him the strength to push the heavy creature off him, saddened that he had needed to kill the graceful beast so that he could live.
He lay for a short while to gather more strength, knowing that he had to deal with his own injury. He needed that water more than ever, to drink, to clean. Without it he was a dead man. The wound in his chest hurt like crazy but he'd suffered worse at the hands of his tormentors. If he could survive the pain that the mist had visited upon him, surely he could survive this. Not if he didn't stop himself bleeding to death.
That thought gave him the strength to sit and look at himself. However, with so much blood, it was hard to see how bad his injury was. So he got up and stumbled weakly towards the sound of water again. He was alive, that was all that counted right now. He just had to stay that way.
When he reached the stream, it looked clear and inviting. Should he drink from it? For some reason it nagged him that he was reluctant. Did he have reason to fear drinking from it? Hell! It was this or die of thirst in the end. So he knelt and drank. It tasted good, and he realised this was the first time he had tasted anything at all. The water started to quench his thirst. He hadn't realised how much he had needed to drink. Maybe this would help to clear his mind.
Then he removed his jacket and T-shirt, which was badly torn from the clawing, and washed his chest, tingeing the water pink until it dissipated into the running stream. It wasn't as bad as it had seemed, the brute strength of the animal diluted by his own defence and counter-attack. His will had saved him, along with the knife he had used so skilfully in his short struggle with the beast.
He had no illusions that he had won the fight, but rather, the graceful cat had lost. He figured it would never have attacked if it hadn't been starving, and it was no doubt weakened by it's lack of food. He'd been fortunate; it hadn't.
The blood still seeped from his wound, but no longer flowed freely. It seemed relatively superficial, but if it weren't he had no sensible means to staunch it. Eyeing the T-shirt, he wondered whether it would make a decent bandage but the wound ran the whole length of his chest, fortuitously not reaching the softer and more dangerous areas beneath his protective breast plate and rib cage. If he lay here a while he could outwait it, allow it to stop bleeding before he moved on. Lucky son of a bitch, you should be dead, he told himself.
Later, when he had recovered sufficiently to consider moving once again, he wished he had some means to carry the water. He decided to sit for a while and keep drinking to replenish his body's needs. He must have shed a whole lot of water when his captors forced him to tears earlier. Those bastards had made him do that. he'd show them!
He knew he shouldn't let himself get dehydrated, especially when he'd suffered blood loss, but wasn't entirely sure how he knew anything about that. At least it was something else he knew. Another little piece of certainty in his wholly uncertain world.
So he relaxed, letting his strength come back to him bit by bit. As he recovered he took his clothing to the shallow waters, trying to rid them of the blood that had soaked them. These were stains he would never remove, stains of both life and death; perhaps it was fitting if he couldn't wash it all out. Nevertheless, he did his best, eradicating what he could of the excess blood and diluting the cloying stench that pervaded. Then he lay to rest again as his clothing dried in the warmth of the day.
Everything else could wait. He could better continue his journey fully rested. He just wished he knew where that journey was taking him, what he was aiming for. Survival, life, that was more than sufficient purpose for now, he told himself, decisively, all fear gone for now and replaced by stubborn resolve.
The SGC:
The three remaining members of SG-1 stood in front of the outgoing wormhole, alongside SG-9. Hammond had agreed they should return to the planet to search for clues to O'Neill's whereabouts, this time with help. They'd sent a UAV, which had found very little, certainly no signs of life, but it indicated some ruins approximately 9 klicks from the gate, which was further than they had got before their CO's sudden disappearance had stopped their exploration.
Daniel persuaded the General that they might find clues at those ruins. Maybe knowledge of the civilisations that had inhabited this planet would help them determine where O'Neill might have gone. The additional pairs of eyes accompanying them might spot some little thing, anything, that could help them resolve the puzzle of Jack's disappearance.
The three were damned if they were going to helplessly sit on their hands back at base while O'Neill suffered God only knows what at the hands of his mysterious captors. Action, they had to take action; they had to find him and bring him home to them. His disappearance was unacceptable to all three and they would not rest until he was found.
Hammond knew this about them but also realised that he could not spend resources on this search forever, with no reward. He was uncertain of what risks his people took by going back, and feared he might lose more of them before this mystery was resolved - if it was ever resolved. He didn't like to think of that and was more than willing to let them try for now. While there were unexplored avenues he would not give up on his favoured Colonel either.
The unofficial motto of the SGC was never leave anyone behind, an ethic instilled by Hammond's own quiet determination, and O'Neill's often more noisy and frequently voiced one. He knew O'Neill well enough to understand that the man would never give up while breath still remained in his body. That thought had often given Hammond strength in times of adversity.
This was not the first time that O'Neill had been taken from them, and probably not the last. The man had a knack of surviving against all odds, and this he had passed onto his team. It comforted Hammond to know that, if he was still alive, Jack would be fighting every inch of the way, desperately trying to find his way home again. He would not let O'Neill down if he could avoid it.
So he would risk the lives of his people, carry on using whatever resources he could. Only when the risk outweighed the prize would Hammond give up, as he had reluctantly done in the past, only to be confounded by Jack's obstinate resolve yet again.
When he woke he couldn't recall having felt tired. Had it been the water that made him sleep? What water? He was no longer by a stream; no longer in a forest. Had he ever been there? He couldn't be sure. It unsettled him as he believed he was normally much more certain of things than this. However, he couldn't be sure of that either.
Jack! That was a name wasn't it? Was it his name? He had no idea whether it was or not; it had just entered his mind unbidden, like the circle. Maybe it was the name of a friend. Although he forlornly had to admit that it didn't seem like he had any of those in this desolate place. He wondered about that and was overwhelmed by loneliness.
There were few trees here. It was rugged heath land and he could see nothing but heather and a sparse growth of grasses and bushes wherever he looked. The depressing place enhanced his isolation, and deep, dark feelings of loneliness and sadness invaded him once more. He was lost and friendless with no obvious means of survival in this bleak landscape.
As if his misery was not enough, a searing agony shot through him like a bolt of lightening. He screamed, and it shattered the silence. Contorting with the torment, he could feel the sweat all over his body, sending shivers through him which merely added to his woes. He was shaking so much that he was surprised his body didn't just fall apart from it. Stop, please stop!
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
Nooooooo! Not again. Anything but this. The words echoed through his mind once more, over and over. He couldn't think straight; they were overpowering and increasingly loud and invasive. They scared him as their appearance seemed to bring him great pain, and anguish. He could not control it, or his emotions, when they attacked, and hated that powerlessness.
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'
As he writhed under the control of his captors, flashes of a past life came to mind. He was strapped to a chair, wires attached to his naked body and his tormentors throwing a switch that sent an electric current of pure agony through his body. Acid burned holes in his clothing and skin, eating into his insides, killing him. The stench of death, urine and vacated bowls. The dread of a door opening and someone coming to take him to his torturers. It all jumbled up inside his head and he didn't know whether it had been real. Was this what his life had been?
He gripped his head, which felt it was about to explode with the pain, his ear drums seemingly on the verge of bursting from the decibel levels. Should he pretend to give up, make them think he bowed to their will? Living to fight another day seemed like the sensible option. Please, please, please stop, he begged, I'll do anything.
Abruptly it ceased. He wondered what he had promised to do, couldn't remember anything specific and hoped he remembered so the agony would not come back. He lay still for a while, trying to recover himself. The memories of the torture were almost as bad as the real thing and his nerve endings felt on edge as if anticipating a further onslaught.
He was getting confused, unable to tell if this was really happening to him or just a figment, as he suspected. Whatever the truth, he could not deny that the pain felt real, and he could probably die in this place. He could not recall nightmares being this vivid and real, but what did he know? Forcing himself to think about something else he made the memories recede.
I wonder what I look like, he thought. I wish I'd looked at my reflection in the water while I had the chance. He looked at his hands to give him a clue as to how old he might be and had no idea. His hands looked mature; no kid or teenager then, not even particularly young.
Pulling some hair from his head he studied it. Grey. An old man then? Not that old, maybe. Hadn't he climbed a tree earlier? Forty? Fifty? More? He grasped for clues, partly stripping himself hurriedly to look at his body for other evidence. Grey hair on the chest; muscular though and looking pretty fit. It wasn't much help. He could be old and work out a lot. He finally settled on fifty or so. It was as good a guess as any.
Colonel. He thought the word should be familiar but could not work out what it meant. It might as well have been a foreign language. Maybe it was. Colonel? What the hell was that and why had his mind suddenly thrust it at him? It was trying to send him a message but he couldn't understand it's purpose. Biting back tears of frustration he wondered why 'they' put that in his head but did not tell him what it meant? Once again he knew it was important, but not why.
A feeling of total peace suddenly came over him and he was surprised. Why? Had he had a revelation they, whoever they were, wanted him to have? Was it something to do with the word Colonel?
Once more his body was suffused with euphoria. It was that wonderful feeling again. Oh, yes please! Was this meant as some form of encouragement or reward? If so, he wished he could remember more. Oh boy, this felt so good. A warmth inside was building rapidly, quickly becoming a fire that needed to be quenched and he groaned with the pleasure.
The wisps of mist whipped around him, quickening their pace. Wow! No, no not so quickly, please, he begged, wanting this rapture to last. They slowed to meet his demands and he became intoxicated with delight. He could almost hear them. Not saying 'are you worthy?' this time, but something else. He did not know what and neither did he care as he was totally enthralled. This was seventh heaven!
Was there a way to stop himself reaching that glorious peak? He was torn between wanting it to last and the total elation and gratification that would come from that torturous release. He wanted and craved it while, simultaneously, relishing the fever that grew within him at the whisper of the wisps. Whisper to me more, more, he pleaded fervently.
More flashes, good things this time. A woman with blonde hair, her perfume exhilarating as they copulated, naked and exposed, on a large double bed. A passionate kiss in the moonlight with a young, dark haired girl, eager to please and allowing so much more than he had expected. A blonde again, astride his body, an exultant and triumphant screech coming from her mouth as he also cried aloud with pleasure. The same blonde? A name? Sam? No, Sarah; he was pretty sure of that, whoever she was.
The flashes ceased as the needs of his body dictated his full participation. He didn't know how long the rapture lasted but he would reach the precipice soon and tumble over into the chasm. Oh joy! He could no longer stop himself, no longer wished to. His breath quickened and his moans kept pace with it. Suddenly he reached the top and toppled.
Oh glory be! It was exquisite; so much more than anything he had experienced with the blonde or brunette of his memory. This was totally different and truly awesome.
As he lay in his paradise he realised that if this should happen too often he would never get anywhere; it was sapping his strength. He must resist its embrace next time it seduced him.
Getting up at last, he again looked for a sign of which direction to take and found none. The sky was no longer blue, but dull and murky. There was nothing but sparse vegetation to relieve the dreary landscape. He'd preferred the forest, however unrelenting it had seemed. This place was forbidding and gloomy. Once again he set off in a random direction.
Hunger forced him to look around for a likely source of food. There appeared to be none. He patted his pockets again knowing they were empty, then found something he was sure had not been there previously - an energy bar. Weirdly convenient. Was this a dream? If it was it was a midsummer night's one with him firmly cast in the role of Bottom. He chuckled at that thought. He could remember Shakespeare but not his own name?
"Don't poke your irony out Jack." He muttered aloud to himself.
Jack? He had called himself Jack. Okay, now he was getting somewhere. The name must belong to him, right? You don't call yourself by someone else's name; that would be stupid. Good, Jack it is then. A nice solid sounding name. He wondered if he looked like a Jack.
He eyed the energy bar suspiciously. Surely this was too real to be a dream, even one brought on by the fairy folk - despite an energy bar that seemed to appear like magic. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth old man, he told himself, you need sustenance. Unwrapping it, he ate slowly, savouring its sweet taste. Mmmmm! That was good.
Feeling much refreshed he walked, and walked, and then walked some more. He was still getting nowhere. Maybe he wasn't meant to. Then what was his purpose? Why was he here? There must be a logical explanation but he could think of none, except his conclusion that he was being punished. So be it. But if that was so, why those glorious feelings of pleasure? It was a puzzle.
O'Neill. Once again the word entered his head unbidden. O'Neill? What was that? It sounded like a name. He thought about it. Jack O'Neill had a ring of familiarity. Colonel Jack O'Neill? Yes, much better. A name, his name. He was fairly convinced it was his name and was proud of himself for remembering it at last. Give yourself a pat on the back O'Neill, he thought.
The remembrance did nothing to help. A name is only a name. Who is Colonel Jack O'Neill? He didn't know.
He felt the soft whisper of paradise, like waves lapping gently at his feet. Titania! Perhaps she's come to lay him on her bed of flowers and command her troupe to serve his whim. Having got Midsummer Night's Dream on his mind he couldn't seem to shift it. A love potion was working its way to his soul and he would be lost forever.
He told himself that he should not associate these feelings with a woman, even a fairy from a play; he would lose himself to it. Continue to think of it as...well... it, Jack, he lectured. No... yes... don't! He tried to resist it's call as it teased him, but it would not loosen its grasp.
Instead it whipped around him again, this time like slender tendrils brushing his skin, urging him on to enjoyment. No! Again he tried to pull himself away from it but was unable to prevent it's caress. The mist swirled gently, taunting him seductively. It dared him to fight but he was already helpless in it's embrace.
He gasped with joy as it inspired his body to react without his conscious thought. Once more he writhed in his bliss. This time the mist was deliberately taking its time, as if in slow motion. It was unbearable whilst still marvellous. Agony and ecstasy, two sides of the same coin.
Then the real torment started and he almost welcomed it. His head throbbed, his throat was sore. It moved down his body, ravaging him in its wake; his neck, shoulders, arms, chest. He thought his heart would stop with the pain. His stomach, his groin. Christ! The mist continued to entrance him, transporting him to delight while still merciless in it's exquisite agony. He savoured and revelled in it. The hell gave way to total paradise once more and he cried aloud in his exaltation.
It took him to the brink, then taunted him once more by stopping. No! Don't stop. It wanted him to beg, so he did. Please, please! He could feel the sweat pouring from him, dampening his clothes as he struggled in his sweet torment. I beg you; make love to me, he screamed aloud. But it left him bereft and unfulfilled.
The suffering started again moments later. No ecstasy, merely agony. A great deal of it. This time he was screaming at his ordeal, more sweat joining the other to soak him thoroughly. He passed out... and woke by a large lake. The scenery was beautiful and reminded him of... something... somewhere. Minnesota sprang into his mind.
What was Minnesota? A place? A person? He didn't know and it frustrated him. He was still damp from the sweat although the pain had subsided. He went to the lakeside and tried the water. It seemed okay so he drank.
Quickly stripping off his clothes, he splashed into the water to bathe. It was cold but refreshing. He would stay in here a while. He swam and dived under the surface, rubbing at his body and hair to clean it as much as possible. Then he lay back and floated, allowing himself to drift.
There was no logic to the pain, or the pleasure. He had thought the ecstasy was a prize for remembering something he needed to recall, for them. He had remembered his name and believed he was being rewarded when his body had been suffused with joy and elation. However, it had turned on him, taunting with equal parts pain and pleasure, and then left him to suffer an almost unendurable torture until he'd passed out.
Once again he had recalled fleeting memories. Someone held their hand up to him and he fell to his knees as the light from the hand grabbed at his pain centres and invaded his brain. He was pinned to a wall, a long piece of metal through his shoulder; unbearable heat, and intolerable pain, both seemingly unending. He was dying, a virus attacking his body, a high fever which burned him up, covered in sweat, nauseous and unable to breath properly.
The mist joined him once again as he lay there, and it took him in its domineering grip, erasing those torments from his mind in an instant. He smiled rapturously. It had never finished what it had started before and he wished for it to now, not even attempting to resist.
Once again it seduced him slowly, tickling and teasing as its tendrils gently caressed. Yes, take me, possess me, he whispered back to it's song of love. I want this; I want this forever. It danced around him, cavorting and exuberant. He danced right along with it, returning it's enthusiasm. It whipped him up to a frenzy and he bit his bottom lip with desire and longing. I'm yours, yes. I love only you, I want only you, forever. He could feel its pleasure at his words as it licked at him. Yes, Titania, my love I'll be here always. Please take me, own me, do with me what you will. I am utterly yours. He surrendered himself to it totally and it signalled it's joy and brought him his own.
It was better than before, a mutual passion that refused to be sated for an age. He hadn't believed it could be any better. Each nerve of his body sang it's pleasure and begged for liberation; a heavenly rhapsody. He heard it whisper, 'yes Jack you are mine forever' and whispered back 'yes my love, yes, oh yes!' He was so close to that perfection, the pinnacle of his goal. Yes! Take me, have me, hold me, love me, kill me.
The mist sighed into his ear and he reached to touch, embracing it. Oh God, don't stop, please don't stop. He could hear his breath rasping and ragged as it kissed him gently. Take me, own me, possess me, he said again. I want you, I need you, I love you. Yes! They cried in unison and he shook and shuddered with his unshackling from it's grasp.
Immediately, he missed it's touch and the hold it had on him and reached for it, wanting. Don't go. Please don't leave. But his pleas went unanswered as he was left alone once more.
TBC in Part 2: Titania...