Precisely one hour after SG5 gated back to the SGC, Hammond called to order their team debriefing. In addition to SG5, Hammond requested the presence of SG1. Both teams had been to the same planet and had had two very different experiences. He knew both of them could not be accurate and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.
"Let's get this started, people," Hammond said, settling down in the chair at the head of the briefing table. Carter and Jackson, at his right, were quick to start.
"Sir, I don't understand how SG5 found no sign of life on that planet. When we were there it was teeming with life—both animals and humans," Carter said emphatically, her hands moving in synch with her words.
"Major, what are you implying?" Colonel Yearwood asked, immediately on the defensive. His shoulders tensed and his light brown eyes flashed with anger.
"I'm not implying anything, Colonel," Carter started, but Jackson cut her off.
"Actually, she is implying that you didn't do your job." Jackson played with his glasses, absently adjusting how they sat on his nose. His gaze was direct, unyielding, and accusing. "It is absolutely beyond me how a trained military soldier, such as yourself, could have missed the very obvious signs of human habitation. Did you even bother to follow the path to the village?"
"Dr. Jackson, I resent the implications of your words." Yearwood angrily pointed his index finger at Jackson. "And in any case, where do you get off insulting the very military organization that invited you to work on this program? If you don't watch what you say, you might find yourself on the outside. You seem to forget that you're just a civilian with special privileges."
"Well, at least I know what my job is and carry it out properly." Jackson shot back angrily.
Hammond sat with his hands crossed in front of him and watched the exchange. Insults were flying back and forth across the table. It almost felt like he was watching a competitive tennis match. It was time he intervened. His quiet, yet authoritative voice brought the argument to its end immediately. "Enough." A stern look around the table followed his declaration. Carter had the decency to look embarrassed, her military training kicking in. Jackson stared accusingly at Yearwood, but held his tongue. Everyone could see Yearwood's animosity hovering just under the surface. Tension permeated the room. Hammond took a deep breath before he continued. "I will not tolerate this type of childish behavior from my officers—or from those who are under this command." He eyeballed each team-member individually. "Do I have to remind you that you are all adults?"
"No, sir," mumbled Carter sheepishly.
Colonel Yearwood backed down a moment later. "No, sir. Sorry, sir." Daniel didn't say anything, taking a noticeable interest in his fingernails.
Once silence settled over the room, he continued. "Now Colonel Yearwood, would you please recount your team's experience on P5X-171. From the beginning," Hammond firmly added, folding his hands together and turning his attention on the SG5 commander. Yearwood cleared his throat uneasily and narrated his team's time offworld, step by step; backtracking and elaborating when prompted by Hammond or Carter. Jackson remained unusually silent.
"Very well, Colonel. Thank you for your thoroughness in this assignment." Hammond looked around the table at the dispirited faces of SG1 and SG5. No one was a happy camper tonight—him included. He was still missing his second in command—and his friend. He shook off the thought. "Does anyone have anything else to add?"
After a few beats of silence, Jackson spoke up. His hands, which had never stopped playing with his glasses, now underscored his words with every gesture. "Yes, General. I believe you need to send another team back to P5X-171 and I need to be part of that team. There are sentient lifeforms on that planet, whatever Colonel Yearwood says. How else would you explain what's happened to us?" Hammond's mouth dropped open in disbelief. Did Jackson ever give up? Vaguely, Hammond wondered just how Jack O'Neill could deal with this kind of passion every day of the week.
Jackson took a deep breath and continued on full tilt. Apparently he'd been gearing up for this. Jackson's blue eyes were clear and focused intently on Hammond, as if his very force of will would convince Hammond that he was right. "You are insistent that we have another member in our team. If that's the case, how did we forget him in the first place? It wasn't by merely inhaling the air on that planet or eating or drinking something. If that were the case, our memory loss would be more extensive. Apparently, our memories have been erased or blocked in a very deliberate manner. Someone had to do it to us. Therefore, that indicates that there is some type of intelligent life residing on that planet. Not only intelligent, but also highly advanced. How else could our memories have been changed that specifically, that deliberately?"
While Jackson's observations had the ring of truth to them, Hammond couldn't order another mission to this planet based on hypotheses and half-formed ideas. He needed something concrete, something solid. Unfortunately, where this planet was concerned, he didn't think he was going to get it.
Hammond sighed softly. Nothing ever went easily when SG1 was concerned. "Dr. Jackson, that sounds all well and good, but if that were the case, then SG5's memories might also have been tampered with."
Colonel Yearwood perked up noticeably. "Absolutely not. We didn't even come in contact with any intelligent life. There was nothing there."
"That you remember," Jackson said quietly, speaking aloud the thought in everyone's mind.
"SG5, please report to Dr. Fraiser and have her give you a thorough, and I mean very thorough, examination. I want to get to the bottom of this." He looked around the briefing room table, catching everyone's eye while his mind mulled over this information. A conclusion was reached easily, but he knew it wouldn't be popular. The good thing about the military was that it wasn't a democracy. If they didn't listen, he could make them. "Until I get answers that I like, both SG1 and SG5 are confined to base under the care of Dr. Fraiser. Only once Dr. Fraiser clears you for duty will I consider re-activating both teams. Dismissed." Hammond stood and quickly walked out of the briefing room and into his office, avoiding the arguments he knew would come. A succession of "yes, sirs" followed him out.
XXXXXXXXXXJack O'Neill woke to the smell of breakfast. Not just any breakfast, but a freshly made, home cooked breakfast. The kind mom made when she was proud of you.
For a minute, he thought he was home again, but soon enough he came face to face with the harsh reality of a dirt floor and his left cheek pressed firmly into it. He realized that home was the farthest thing from the truth. The cold and damp had settled into his joints like a smothering blanket; they were stiff from disuse. He was lying on his left side, sprawled out ungracefully on the floor. He moved slightly, bracing himself for the pain he knew was coming, and was surprised when he didn't feel anything.
Slowly, one by one, memories returned. The torture from the night—or the day before. Lady Morgana cleaning his back, using some kind of healing device. He opened one eye—the one not pressed into the dirt floor—to see what, or who, was around. He was alone as far as he could tell and there was a tray of food beside him—a different one than before. This one had several rolls lumped into a pile in the center—while not a large amount of food, compared to what he'd eaten recently it was a feast.
He carefully eased himself into a sitting position. The chain dangling from the collar around his neck rattling slightly. He was pleasantly surprised when the room remained rock steady. That was a new thing, especially lately.
Although his muscles were sore, he seemed to be in one piece. Even his ribs were fine. He was confused and a little surprised, but from experience, he knew he didn't want to look a gift horse—or in this case, a misplaced Celtic priestess—in the mouth.
See, Daniel. I do pay attention sometimes, he thought.
He looked around again, inspecting the room. There hadn't been much of an opportunity earlier to do so. Besides, on that short chain he couldn't have gotten very far in any case.
Squinting a little, he noticed that there was a bucket in the far corner—in the back of the cell deep in the shadows. That would have come in handy that first night, he thought, grimacing in disgust. He'd woken up briefly in the middle of the night, his bladder finally screaming for release. Tired and aching, he merely had the strength to turn a little, the chain not giving him any leeway. Even in the dark he was disgusted—both at himself and the situation. He was no better than an animal. From what he could see, his urine, while not as plentiful as he originally expected, was dark yellow. Dehydration had definitely set in. Weariness and resignation had finally pushed him back down into a restless slumber, leaving him barely enough energy to move away from the puddle slowly soaking into the dirt and pebble covered floor before him, the wool of his pants soaking up some of the foul smelling liquid. He had been too tired to care.
He glanced around the room again, making sure he was alone. Once he confirmed his first observations, he moved gingerly over to the tray, easing his muscles into moving and working once again. He took a warm roll into his hands, lifting it to his face to inhale the intoxicating aroma. He closed his eyes, letting it envelop his senses. Without buttering it, he took a small bite, savoring the simple rustic bread. It tasted like heaven.
He wanted to devour the whole roll in one bite, but knew that wouldn't be recommended. He knew the routine, had been through it more times than he wanted to admit. He hadn't eaten in days and he didn't want to lose his first meal. He went slowly, pacing himself. The water, although lukewarm, was sheer ecstasy.
He had polished off one of the rolls and almost the entire goblet of water when Lady Morgana walked in. He nearly felt human again, although he could use a long, hot soak in a shower.
"Good afternoon, my pet. How are you feeling?" she asked, looking down at him, her arms crossed over her chest.
O'Neill paused, actually considering the answer to her question. He cleared his throat several times before he could get the words out. "All things considered, I'm okay."
"Good. You have been unconscious for two days. We were starting to get worried."
"Two days?" Jeez, he thought, no wonder I feel stiff. The floor isn't the best place for a restful night's sleep—let alone two nights. He looked up at her, curious as to what she wanted. She would tell him eventually, he knew, but there had to be a catch, a string somewhere. He just couldn't figure out what it could be. While he was apparently in some semblance of working order, his mind was still playing catch up.
"Yes, the healing device takes much energy, from both the patient and the caregiver. You had many injuries that required healing. The food and water should help to restore some of your strength. Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes, I did," O'Neill said, clearing his throat again. He glanced around the room again, trying to order his thoughts. His interest was piqued, however, and he wasn't in the mood to beat around the bush. One part of him wanted to know the answer, but the other part didn't really want to know. Grimacing slightly, he dived in. "Why exactly are you being so nice to me all of a sudden? I thought you said I was lower than your enemy, somewhere just above pond scum. Why the sudden interest in my health?"
Lady Morgana smiled slightly. "Why, my pet, did you not know that as long as you continue to help my people that I am honor bound to treat you well?"
"What?" O'Neill was confused. His forehead creased, causing the line between his brows to deepen. He hadn't helped her. He hadn't told her anything. Or had he? He wracked his brain, trying to remember, but just drew a blank. His memories of his torture were kind of hazy. All he could clearly remember was the pain.
"Tonight we shall speak once again. Perhaps you will be able to secure for yourself another day of rest and food. What do you think my pet?" She smiled evilly at him before she turned toward the door.
O'Neill was on his feet, his eyes flashing in anger. How he got there so quickly, he didn't remember. He was acting on instinct and instinct alone and he didn't like this, not one bit. He was at the end of his rope, literally; the chain stretched taunt behind him. He pointed his finger angrily at her. "There's no way I would have helped you. I'm not one of your projects, your experiments."
She turned back to him, a contented look on her face. The look sent chills down his back. He had seen that look before. He had seen it in Iraq, on the face of the base commander before the unspeakable torture began. He had seen it on Hathor's face as she placed the mature Goa'uld on his chest, moments before it dived into his exposed neck. He had also seen it when he was on Netu, on the face of Apophis just before he forced him to drink the Blood of Sokar and relive the horrible memories from his past. Some might have called it evil determination. It was a madness for power and control so deeply rooted that the best of intentions could even prove to be deadly for those who stood in the way.
"My pet, you leave me no choice. Tonight you will see just how much you already belong to me." She stepped closer to O'Neill, gazing directly into his hate-filled eyes. "Hear my words this day. You will never win. I will slowly drive you out of your mind. I want to be the one to see your face when you reach that place when you realize a woman has defeated you, and you scream and beg for my mercy. You will get there, I assure you and, when you do, I will be there to see it. You will help my people, whatever it takes." She stepped back to the door, tossing the last words over her shoulder as she walked away. "Tonight, we shall take it one step further and see how far you can go. Be well, my pet, and rest. You will need all your strength tonight."
O'Neill stood in place for several minutes, trying to cool his rage, his fists clenching and unclenching unconsciously. He had so many unanswered questions. Where did she get all the Goa'uld technology? It wasn't like the Goa'uld had just left it behind. It wasn't hard to come by, even for them. How had these people defeated the Goa'uld in the first place? Who was Morgana really? Apparently, she was different from everyone else. She had a presence—sometimes intoxicatingly beautiful and kind, other times darkly malevolent. The villagers worshipped her, catering to her every whim. She received their unquestioning obedience. She thrived on it.
O'Neill settled back down on the dirt floor, leaning against the stone wall. He drew the food tray close to him so he could reach it without stretching. The bread was cooling, but he didn't care. Knowing his stubbornness, he knew it would probably be quite some time before he earned another meal. He had better try to eat as much as he could now. He would need the energy and the strength later on—especially if Morgana got her way.
He sat, quietly munching on a second roll and wondering what torture she had planned for tonight. He spent the afternoon that way, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. Compartmentalizing, he called it, locking up bits and pieces of his mind so there was something left after the torture was done. It was something he had learned to do years ago, mostly out of necessity. It wasn't exactly something the nice Air Force folks taught you. It was a skill you picked up along the way.
Turlough and Bubba arrived sooner than he expected. His time sense was off. It didn't help to be in a dark dungeon with no access to the outside. It could be the middle of the night for all he knew. The torches in the hall continued to burn all day and all night, steadfast and unchanging.
Bubba pulled him roughly to his feet while Turlough unhooked the chain from the wall. They dragged him down the hall to the Goa'uld laboratory, barely letting him get his feet under him. Somewhere along the way he had lost his socks. He protested all the way, trying to convince the goons that he could "walk very well on his own two feet, thank you." They ignored him and dragged him forward relentlessly.
This time, in place of the single wooden chair in the middle of the room, a table stood with what looked like some type of soft material on top. Bubba lifted him, dropping him unceremoniously on the top. O'Neill struggled, but to no avail. They held him down, without even breaking a sweat.
The surface wasn't the usual hard metal O'Neill was accustomed to when it came to Goa'uld technology. It was soft, conforming to his body.
After freeing one of his hands, Turlough pressed a button on the side of the table and a soft humming filled the air. Turlough and Bubba stepped back from the table and, before O'Neill could figure out what was happening, the table beneath him started moving. O'Neill watched—his eyes filled with understanding and horror—as streams of what looked like liquid metal surged up from beneath him.
At first he thought he would be covered completely with the material, but that was not the case. Restraints appeared just above his elbows, at his wrists, just above his knees, at his ankles, around his neck and the collar, and around his waist. They firmly and effectively secured him to the table at every movable point. It only took seconds and the streams of metal hardened. He pulled and tugged at the restraints, trying franticly to break free, but it was no use. He was completely and thoroughly incapacitated. He was helpless, unable to move a muscle in his own defense. He could barely even lift his head. This was no Goa'uld technology he had ever seen before.
"So it's torture time again, is it?" O'Neill asked sarcastically, trying to cover his nervousness, not really expecting an answer. He wasn't surprised then when Turlough and Bubba didn't respond, stepping back to guard him instead.
O'Neill rolled his eyes and gestured the best he could with his hands. "Look, guys, I'm not going anywhere, as if you hadn't already noticed. You don't have to stand there staring at me."
Turlough looked at O'Neill for a moment before answering. "Lady Morgana requested us to remain here."
"Did she?"
"Yes." Turlough was as expressive as Teal'c tonight. That didn't bode well.
Tough crowd, O'Neill thought, grimacing. All the while he was tugging carefully, forcefully at the metal that secured him to the table. It wasn't budging, but it didn't stop him from trying. He spoke up a moment later. "So, what exactly does she have planned for tonight? A little dining, a little dancing, a little torture?"
"I do not know," said Turlough evenly, staring intently at a spot on the wall across the room.
"That's enough, Turlough," Lady Morgana said sharply from the doorway. O'Neill tried without success to raise his head to look at her. No one had heard her approach. "Both of you may wait in the hall. I might need your assistance later tonight."
"Yes, my Lady." Bubba and Turlough uttered, bowed, and quickly exited the room, closing the door behind them.
"So...what do you have in mind for tonight?" O'Neill asked, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice as she circled the table like a shark, staring down at him. She was inspecting him like a piece of meat. Every now and then she'd reach down, tugging at his clothing, caressing his arm, his leg, whatever was close.
"Hey, come on. What do you think you're doing?" O'Neill protested. He shifted infinitesimally, nervous and unable to do anything but watch, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. She merely smiled at his discomfort and continued on.
After what seemed like hours, she strode over to the side of the room toward some shelving and pulled a few items off. He didn't remember those shelves from the other night—however many days ago that was, he thought absently. Walking back to O'Neill, she pressed a small button on the side of the table and a tray slid out. She placed the items she held on it.
O'Neill couldn't help but be impressed by the technology. As much as he complained and moaned about Carter's technobabble, he knew cool when he saw it. This was cool technology. Not that he was all that interested in examining it close up, but tonight, it didn't look like he had much choice in the matter.
"Now, my pet, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, it's your choice."
He looked directly at her and tried giving her his most charming smile. "Well, I don't have the reputation of being easy and I'm not about ready to start now. Besides, I wouldn't want to start any rumors. So, what do you think? You've got three guesses."
"I think you are determined to defy me." Her green eyes flashed in anger, matching O'Neill's dark brown ones in intensity.
"Well, you guessed right the first time. You win a prize," he said sarcastically.
She ignored his comments and picked up one of the items off the tray at her side. It looked like some kind of Goa'uld technology, but he couldn't place it. She saw his questioning look and graced him with an explanation. He was thankful for the delay, but discovered soon enough that he might have been better off not knowing.
"You recognize that this was once a Goa'uld device, do you not?" At O'Neill's reluctant nod, she continued, spinning the tool in her fingers. "This was a simple instrument once, but it only had one purpose, to cut. Now, it can do so much more, from simply causing pain like this," she said, pressing the tip lightly into the flesh of his right arm, causing burning pain to shoot up and down the length of his arm.
O'Neill held his breath and bit his lip in an effort to hold in his outcry. The fingers of his right hand stretched and spasmed. Morgana lifted up the device, leaving a small welt on his arm that was already turning red.
"Or," she continued, "with a little pressure it can do this." She moved down the length of his body to his right leg and pressed the device in firmly, drawing it up his leg. An intense pain ripped through him. He tried arching his back in an attempt to escape the agony but the restraints held him tightly—he didn't budge. He gritted his teeth, but a moan escaped his lips. He could feel the mark the device made, even through his pant leg. He could feel the hot blood dripping down his thigh and pooling beneath him, soaking through the light woolen pants.
"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She asked rhetorically as O'Neill tried to catch his breath. She watched him thoughtfully for a minute. "Or, if I was so inclined, I could do this," she said, firmly pressing it to one of his ribs. The audible sound of the bone breaking echoed through the room. The white-hot pain along his side threatened to overwhelm his senses and blackness danced at the outer edge of his vision, but his consciousness held on. He screamed and cursed her.
"You can scream all you like, my pet, no one can hear you down here." She smiled down at him. "Oh, and do not think that death will end your pain. The table you are on was once one of several sarcophagi that the Goa'uld left behind. We modified this one. This table will keep you alive as long as you remain on it. It does not take away the pain, but it can heal you enough to keep you alive during the torture."
"Swell," O'Neill said through gritted teeth. It was all he could get out. He was breathing heavily now with short shallow breaths, trying not to move too much. Broken bones digging into raw nerves shouldn't hurt so much, but for some reason it did—every time.
"I'm glad you approve. Shall I continue?" she asked, waving the device. "Or shall I demonstrate some of the other toys I have at my disposal?"
"Whatever floats your boat," O'Neill said breathlessly. A drop of sweat trickled down from his hairline, tracing a path down his temple and along his left eye.
"My, my, we're cooperative tonight," she said, picking up another tool. This one was about the size of her palm. "This one is very interesting. We combined several pieces of Goa'uld technology to get this device. I'm actually surprised the Goa'uld have not created something similar. Although, they might have developed something like this since they were last here. But then, they are a rather stupid and single-minded race. They do not see the big picture, I believe that's what you call it." She smiled to herself in thought. A few moments went by before she brought herself back to the present. "You see, while the other device leaves red welts when it is used, this device leaves no external markings. Instead it just causes pain at the lowest setting and at the higher setting can cause internal trauma. It's very useful. Here, let me show you what I mean. For this demonstration, I'll leave it on its lowest setting."
"Thanks, you're all heart." He grimaced and braced himself the best he could for what he knew was to come.
She carefully looked him over trying to decide just where to start. She opted for his lower left leg. Pressing it to his calf muscle, a dull pain started to radiate up his leg. The longer she held it there, the more intense the pain got. Before too long, he was moaning and cursing under his breath. Just when he thought his muscle was going to cramp up, she stopped and the pain immediately subsided.
"See, my pet, the fun we can have?" The frightening part about this whole thing is that she appeared to be enjoying herself—and she hadn't asked him anything yet.
"Oh yeah. Fun times can be had by all."
"Now then, I think it's time to get down to business," she said, glaring at O'Neill effectively shutting him up. "Where do we start? Oh I know, where can the Stargate take me?"
He looked at her, hatred in his eyes. "Straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200."
She didn't flinch; instead choosing to press the palm device against his abdomen. The pain began again, slowly at first. "I asked you a question. I intend to get an answer. Where can the Stargate take me?"
O'Neill tried to catch his breath before he answered. He didn't want her to know how much it was starting to hurt. He enunciated each word. It was the only way they were coming out. "It's ...not ...my ...fault ...you've ...never ...played ...Monopoly." He fought desperately to take a deep breath. It took all his energy to get the words out. "You ...had ...better ...get ...used ...to ...disappointment."
A cold fury raged through her eyes and she pressed the device in deeper before drawing it away. If he could have sagged in relief he would have, but he couldn't even scratch his nose. Oddly enough, as soon as he realized that circumstance, his nose started twitching. He didn't think she would be cooperative if he asked her to scratch his nose.
Apparently she wasn't happy with the results the second device was giving her. She reached for the scalpel-like device and continued her questions.
"Where can the Stargate take me?"
"To Disneyland." The device pressed into his thigh, drawing blood as she pulled it up his leg as if she were slicing open a tomato.
"How many worlds does the Stargate go to?"
"Why? Trying to get away from it all?" She pressed it sharply into his left forearm, snapping the bones. He yelped in pain, cursing the day of her birth. He instinctively wanted to cradle his arm, but couldn't budge. Tears of frustration and pain formed in his eyes. Sheer determination was the only thing that kept them from falling.
"What is the situation out there? Why have you not defeated the Goa'uld?"
He breathed heavily, trying to push the pain away. Compartmentalize, he thought. Take the pain and put it away. He knew he could do it. He'd done it before. Unfortunately, the pain kept coming back to haunt him. Sweat was popping out all over his face. The pain was starting to make him nauseous.
"Killed a few. Still a number of slimy snakeheads left. Still enough to kill you."
Again the device dived in, drawing blood again as she twisted it into his side. Warm blood spilled down his side, pooling beneath him. She jabbed it in for a good measure more and another rib broke under the pressure. Blackness threatened to close him on him as the pain swelled. He screamed.
Once she got started, she worked quickly, developing a sadistic rhythm of sorts, asking questions about everything. Each question was answered with a sarcastic comment that only proved to infuriate her more. She worked her little tool with surgeon-like precision, only bruising at times while other times, peeling the skin apart, letting the blood run free, or digging it in deep, rupturing blood vessels and breaking bones. Through it all, she kept a satisfied smile on her face. She was enjoying herself.
A number of times, O'Neill thought he was going to black out, but each time he regained his senses she was there, attacking with words and with the knife.
In this place, time had no meaning. All he knew was the pain. There wasn't a place on his body that remained unscathed. At one point, she scored the bottom of his left foot several times, just because she could. Another time she broke the bones in his right foot. His knees, already aching from the dampness, didn't escape her notice. Even while she snapped the ligaments in one knee, she smiled, knowing exactly what kind of pain she caused. While she pressed the device into his cheek, she smiled lovingly down at him, and broke his cheekbone.
Pain wracked his body and there was nothing he could do to comfort himself or protect himself. He yelled and screamed, cursing her, her race, her planet, and the very air she breathed. By the end, he shrieked and cried, yelling out nonsensical answers to questions he barely heard, let alone understood. The pain just had to stop. He couldn't survive like this for much longer.
Blood dripped from more wounds than he could imagine, even from the bloodiest battles in which he had fought. Warm, sticky blood trickled from his body, collecting in a pool beneath him, his clothes soaking it up. His life-blood was oozing from him one drop at a time. Black spots danced before his eyes.
He didn't even notice when she stopped. Instead, he vaguely heard her speaking to the men outside. "Leave him here until his wounds heal then throw him back in the cell."
He tried to draw a breath of relief, but his body's shudders prevented even that comfort. She was finished. He could rest.
XXXXXXXXXXDays passed before General Hammond called another briefing.
During the ensuing time, Dr. Fraiser conducted extensive tests on SG1 and SG5. At one point, a brief glimmer of hope surfaced. According to the initial blood tests on SG5, there was some kind of foreign chemical in their blood stream. Both Carter and Fraiser got extremely excited, but when SG5 was re-tested in an effort to isolate the chemical, all traces of it were gone. It was as if it had never existed. Unfortunately, that put them right back where they started, but it was a start, a clue as to what had happened.
When Fraiser couldn't find what she wanted medically, she opted for an alternative approach—hypnosis. However, after several worthless sessions of hypnosis with the remaining members of SG1 and SG5, Fraiser had to admit defeat. Whatever the chemical was, the block on those memories was absolute. Fraiser, though, was still convinced that there was something more. It was time to call another briefing and throw some ideas around. Both of the teams had been compromised and O'Neill was still MIA.
Carter, Jackson, and Teal'c walked into the briefing room together, followed by Dr. Fraiser. SG5 was noticeably absent. Moments later, Hammond walked in from his adjoining office.
"At ease people," he said, situating himself at the head of the briefing room table as Carter and Fraiser came to attention. He let them settle into their respective seats before he brought the briefing to order. "According to a preliminary report submitted to me by Dr. Fraiser, both SG1 and SG5 were under the influence of some kind of foreign substance."
"That is correct, sir," Fraiser said, chiming in. "Apparently, when enough time passes the chemical is absorbed into the body, leaving no trace in the bloodstream. I don't know what it is exactly. It's only one piece of the puzzle."
"Is it naturally occurring?"
"I don't know, sir. It's hard to tell. We didn't get a large enough sample to do much of an analysis." Fraiser was apologetic.
"What is the chemical for? Could it have caused their memory lapses?" Hammond asked.
"I don't know, sir. Again, we would need more to analyze it, but I don't see how a chemical could have such a different effect on two groups of people. With SG1, they have a very specific memory loss. But with SG5, their memory loss is all encompassing. They have no recollection of anything about the people that SG1 dealt with. " Fraiser waved her hands, as if that would help her find the right words. "There has to be something more involved another variable. I just don't know what that something is."
"Major, do you agree with Dr. Fraiser?"
Carter paused; her blue eyes fixed on the space just above the briefing room table, thinking carefully before she spoke. "Yes, sir. I'd have to draw a similar conclusion. Someone or something else has to be involved." She grimaced slightly before she continued. "It's almost like SG5's memories were erased in a much sloppier manner. Maybe we could even be talking about two different things altogether. I'm just speculating here, sir."
Hammond glanced down at Teal'c, whose forehead was creased in deep thought. "Teal'c, any comments or anything to add?"
"I would have to concur with Doctor Fraiser and Major Carter. There is something more involved than a simple chemical. If it were only a chemical, my symbiote would have been able to overcome the effects of the substance. I, too, have been affected by the same false memories as Major Carter and Daniel Jackson."
Jackson, meanwhile, had been mulling over those very points and had come to a similar conclusion several hours ago. All things led to the fact that someone on that planet had done something to them and they had to get to the bottom of it—quickly. "General," Daniel said, leaning his elbows on the table and removing his glasses. They dangled from his fingertips, swinging, as if to emphasize each point as he made it. "We have to go back to that planet. Even though they seem to have taken some of our memories away from us, I don't believe that they intended to harm us."
Hammond snorted in disbelief. "And what exactly would you call what they did do to you?"
"General, they could have done so much more to us. They had the opportunity to kill us while we slept, or poison us with dinner or breakfast. They chose to keep us alive. They wanted something." A light went off in his head. "Colonel O'Neill."
"What about him?" Hammond asked sharply. This was SG1's first mention of the missing Colonel.
"You said that Colonel O'Neill left with us on this mission." At Hammond's affirmative answer, Daniel continued, "That's one of the pieces to this puzzle. Someone wanted Colonel O'Neill and that's why they chose to remove that memory from us. They didn't want him to be missed but they didn't take into account that there would be other people who would realize immediately that he was gone." He threw his hands up. "How could I have been so dense?"
"None of us realized it, Daniel," Carter said quietly.
"Yes, but even though the General knew he was missing, it still worked to their advantage. We haven't gone back to look for him and when we did, they just removed the memory of their entire civilization. Now, that's given them more time to do whatever it is that they want with him." Daniel's words finally sunk in, giving him a heightened sense of urgency. "General, we have to go back. We have to try and set up this treaty and we have to find Colonel O'Neill."
"Now, hold on a minute, Doctor," Hammond said, raising his hand trying to calm Jackson down. "Out of good conscience, I can't send another team back until I know what's going on. Something or someone has altered your memories and it is also very likely that this also occurred with SG5. What makes another team any different? What else could they do to you? I can't order another mission—whether it be search and rescue or diplomatic—knowing full well that the team I send will most likely be compromised in some way."
Jackson's answer was succinct. "Then send SG1."
"Doctor Jackson, that's preposterous and out of the question." Hammond said emphatically.
"But, sir—" Jackson started, but was cut off by Cater.
"Sir, I have to agree with Daniel."
"I, too, think we should return to the planet," Teal'c said.
Hammond looked unbelievingly between Teal'c and Carter but remained quiet, waiting for an explanation. He got one from Carter moments later.
"Sir, think about it this way. Both Lord Kentigern and Lady Morgana expect SG1 to return to establish diplomatic relations with them. We promised that we would return and they might be able to help us in our fight against the Goa'uld. If they've already modified us, altering something in our minds, they wouldn't consider us to be a risk—like they considered SG5. Besides," she said shrugging, "what do we have to lose at this point?"
"Besides the rest of your minds?" Hammond asked, sounding acutely like O'Neill. He didn't like where this was going, but it didn't look like he had much of a choice. He blew out a breath in defeat. "Very well. I'll send a team to set up something with this Lord Kentigern so we can start this whole diplomatic process. Major Ferretti can go with SG2." Hammond pushed back his chair, preparing to stand, but was stopped by Jackson's voice.
"But General, that's just the point. SG2 shouldn't be put at risk. You should send SG1." Daniel's eyes pleaded with him.
"Dr. Jackson, I am not comfortable sending all of you to the planet at this point. SG2 is capable of setting up a date for your return."
"Sir, if you don't feel comfortable sending all of SG1, then just send me with them. I know the people there. I've been there. Besides, a friendly face might not scare them away like it apparently did with SG5." Jackson was practically begging.
Hammond tried not to sigh, but Jackson did have a point. A friendly face might help. He straightened up, trying to ease the tension building in his shoulders. "Very well, you can accompany SG2. Major Carter, you and Teal'c will remain here. Understood?"
"Yes, sir, " Carter replied, eyeing Jackson suspiciously.
Teal'c inclined his head. "Very well, General Hammond."
"Dr. Jackson, be prepared to leave at 0900 hours tomorrow morning. This time, they won't wait for you, is that understood?"
"Yes, sir." Jackson swallowed nervously. He didn't remember being late the last time they'd gated to the planet.
XXXXXXXXXXWhen Carter found Daniel some hours later, it was apparent that he had spent most of the evening searching through his accumulated goods and artifacts for something. She found him knee deep in boxes and crumpled newspapers.
"Hey, Daniel," she said easing into the room, carefully watching where she put her feet. "What'cha doing?"
Daniel twitched, nearly dropping the pottery vase he was holding. "Sam, what are you doing sneaking up on me?"
"Sorry, Daniel," she said, dropping lightly to sit next to him on the floor. "I wasn't sneaking. Apparently you're just wrapped up in whatever you're doing."
"No, that's okay. I guess I'm just a little jumpy," he frowned slightly, his eyes closed briefly while he attempted to stretch the muscles in his neck. She was sure his back and neck were stiff from sorting through boxes of artifacts. "I'm just trying to find something to take with me tomorrow, to give to Lady Morgana or Lord Kentigern. I don't have any idea what might be considered appropriate and I can't seem to find anything in this mess." He indicated the piles surrounding him with a wave of his hand.
"I can't imagine why you can't find anything," Sam said lightly, teasing him. Daniel's normally organized mess was ten times worse than she had ever seen. He was putting a lot of effort into this—more than normal. "Daniel, why don't you just wait and bring something when the negotiations begin? You don't have to stress yourself out now trying to find something immediately."
Daniel gently placed the vase on the floor and rubbed a hand across his tired face, sighing deeply. "Sam, for some reason, I just need to do this. I can't explain it."
"Are you feeling guilty?"
Daniel's head snapped up quickly. "Why do you say that?"
"I don't know," she shook her head as if she was trying to clear it. She was even surprised. That wasn't what she had thought was going to come out of her mouth.
After a few beats, Daniel spoke up quietly. "Yeah. For some reason, I feel guilty and I don't know why. I have to make things right, but I don't even know what right is."
She nodded, placing her hand lightly on Daniel's slumped and rounded shoulder. "Daniel I know exactly how you feel. I have to make things right, but I don't know how, either.
"It's almost as if our subconscious knows something is wrong and it's trying to fix it."
"Almost, Daniel. Almost." Silence descended on them, as they were each lost in their own thoughts. A few minutes later, she broke the silence. "Daniel, why did you bring Colonel O'Neill up in the briefing before?"
Daniel looked at her for a few minutes, the intensity of his gaze a little disconcerting. He sighed deeply before speaking. "Honestly...I wasn't sure General Hammond would have agreed to the diplomatic mission if we weren't going to try and find Colonel O'Neill."
"Oh," Sam said, a grimace crossing her face.
"And I don't know how you feel, but this alliance just feels right. We need to do this. We need these people on our side," Daniel glanced up sheepishly. "I didn't think there was any other way....Sam, do you even think that the Colonel is even alive?"
Sam paused, turning the question over and over in her mind. She wasn't even certain he existed, let alone if he was alive or dead. "I don't know, Daniel. It's hard to know what to believe anymore." Sam let the silence settle between them, each of them alone with their thoughts. She spoke again a few minutes later. "You know, you should probably get some sleep. You have a big day ahead of you."
"Sleep? You must be kidding. I have to clean all this up." Daniel looked around at the piles of artifacts throughout the room and a haggard expression found its way to his face. She could understand why. Just looking at the piles made her tired. It would take hours to clean up.
"Daniel, go to bed. It'll be here in the morning," Sam smiled tiredly at him. "Come on," she said, getting to her feet and extending her hand to him, "I'll walk you back to your quarters. Besides, I need the company."
"Oh, what," he said, taking her hand, "was Teal'c busy tonight?"
"Actually, he was in the gym taking out his frustrations on the punching bag. I think we're going to have to get a new one."
"What? A new Jaffa or a new punching bag?" Daniel teased, turning the light off and closing the door behind them.
"The Jaffa's fine. It's the punching bag I'm worried about."
"Thanks, Sam." Daniel said simply a few minutes later.
Sam looked at him quickly. "For what?"
"For being there. For reminding me that I'm not alone."
"Isn't that what friends are for?" she asked, stopping in front of Daniel's on base quarters. These quarters came in handy much too often. "Now try and get some rest. Sleep tight, don't' let the bed bugs bite."
"I'm exhausted. I'm sure I'll sleep. Besides," he said with his hand on the doorknob, "I don't think bed bugs have the security clearance for the SGC yet."
"Touché, Daniel," Sam smiled. "Night."
"Night, Sam," he said as she walked down the hall toward her own quarters.
She could feel the lingering effects of his gaze on her back long after she was out of his sight. She sighed and rubbed a weary hand across her face. Knowing Daniel, he was probably already fast asleep—stretched out across the bed, clothes and all.
It always amazed her, his ability to sleep at the drop of a hat. This night she was envious of his ease as she turned the door handle to her quarters. She knew she'd be counting the holes in the ceiling tiles tonight—just as she'd been doing ever since they got back. She sighed again and closed the door quietly behind her.
XXXXXXXXXXDaniel arrived at the embarkation room early and was surprised to see Major Lou Ferretti and his team already there. He checked his watch, but the time was right. He still had ten minutes before they had to depart.
"Dr. Jackson, it's good to see that you made it," Ferretti said as Daniel pulled his field vest in place.
"Uh, thanks." He wasn't happy to be going without Sam and Teal'c, but in this instance he knew that beggars couldn't be choosers. Looking up into the control room, he saw them, along with General Hammond, waiting and watching.
Major Ferretti called out, indicating it was time to get going. "General, we're all ready down here. Can we get started?"
"Yes, Major. Take good care of Dr. Jackson and good luck. I expect you back in a few hours." General Hammond clicked off the microphone as the inner track of the gate started spinning.
Ferretti turned to address his team, his eyes focusing in on Jackson. "Remember people, we're here for a quick meet and greet. No wandering around, no poking at ruins. Let's just say hi and get back home. Understood?" He waited until he got Daniel's reluctant nod before moving toward the ramp.
The wormhole whooshed open and Ferretti ordered his team to move out. Before Daniel stepped through, however, he turned back. Carter and Teal'c were still in the control room watching. He gave them a smile and a half-hearted wave and stepped through.
It was a nice day, Daniel observed when he arrived on the other side. SG2 had already fanned out, checking the area. He headed directly to the path that led to the village. Daniel could tell that Ferretti was not happy.
"Jackson, just where do you think you're going?" Ferretti asked, his eyes flashing in anger. Daniel was sure that someone—probably Ferretti—had warned all of the SG teams about his particular proclivity to go wandering off. Daniel was positive that Ferretti remembered the original mission to Abydos and Daniel's close encounter with the native animals. Ferretti should have known better.
Daniel stopped just before the path headed into the underbrush. What was it about those military types? Daniel pointed dramatically at the dirt beneath his feet. His tone was exasperated. "The path to the village is right here. I'm sure we'll find someone on it. Besides, it'll be quicker and more interesting than just standing here twiddling our thumbs."
Ferretti sighed loudly. "Very well Dr. Jackson, lead on."
Sure enough, about thirty minutes later, they met up with Egan who was very pleased to see him again. After a warm welcome that involved a lot of hugging and back slapping, they got down to business.
"Egan, we would like to return tomorrow evening to speak with Lord Kentigern about establishing a relationship between our two peoples. Can you arrange this for us?"
"Certainly, Daniel Jackson. Lord Kentigern instructed me to make the necessary arrangements with you when you returned. He will be available whenever you are."
Daniel bowed to Egan, showing his respect and his thanks. "Thank you, Egan. You serve your Lord well. Please let him know of our plans to return tomorrow night."
"I will do so. Also, if Samantha Carter can return, Lady Morgana would like to speak with her further. She was disappointed that she missed your departure."
"I will pass along the message, although I cannot be certain she will be able to attend. Some of her other duties may prevent here from joining us."
"I shall pass along that message to my Lady." He bowed low, very formal. "Thank you, Daniel Jackson. I look forward to a time when I can call you brother and truly mean it."
Daniel returned his bow. "I, too, look forward to such a time."
They departed then, each going their own way, Daniel following SG2 back up the trail to the Stargate. Approximately two hours after they left, Daniel set foot back in the SGC, pleased with himself.
After a brief meeting with General Hammond, it was decided that he, Sam, Major Paul Davis, and Major Stan Kovachek would make up the diplomatic party. Major Kovachek was SG8's team leader, the SGC's very own diplomatic team on call for this very type of situation. Lately, SG8 hadn't seen much action, so they were anticipating the meeting with Lord Kentigern.
Who knows, we might need all the help we can get, Daniel thought sarcastically. Since Teal'c had had such a strong reaction the last time, Dr. Fraiser thought it best he remain behind. Hammond agreed, although he was not thrilled to have the rest of SG1 on a field assignment. Maybe a trip to this planet would help jog their memories. Maybe.
As Daniel prepared himself for the meetings that would take place over the next few days, he still felt uneasy. He thought that by going back to the planet, the uneasiness would leave him, but in reality, it had just gotten worse. If he said anything, he knew he would be grounded faster than he could say mud. He just had to suck it up and get on with it. He wondered if Sam felt the same way. He didn't want to ask just in case she didn't. Besides, his feelings were immaterial. The alliance felt right and that was all that mattered. They needed this treaty—whatever the cost.
XXXXXXXXXXEgan cautiously approached the walled city of Meath. While he was eager to proclaim the news of the returning strangers and their desire to forge an alliance, he was of two minds.
Simply put, he did not approve of the actions of Lady Morgana. They were not honorable. They were not the actions of a warrior. Warriors did not skulk around in the dead of night stealing memories and drugging those who were considered friends.
Part of him knew that this was to be expected, just by the way she had watched O'Neill the night of the feast. She had drunk in O'Neill's very presence, reveling in his power, his maleness, and his confidence.
Part of Egan's mind tried to convince him that what she had done had to be right. She was their priestess and the wife of their Lord. But the nagging doubt kept returning, each time stronger than before.
He wandered down deep in the foundations of the great castle and he gazed upon the broken and battered body of the man who had led his people to their village with friendship and trade in mind.
The guards were gone for the night. There was no way this broken man was leaving the room under his own strength. The beating made sure of that; the restraints were superfluous. O'Neill had been here two nights already and had yet to awaken. The table, while providing a means of healing, took time—much more than the hand device.
O'Neill's blood had pooled on the table beneath him, his clothes absorbing what they could, the rest soaking into the table itself. The wounds on his body were finally dry, no longer oozing the precious elixir of life. The bones would heal first, knitting themselves back together. Egan figured the broken bones had already healed. It was only a matter of time before the soft tissue injuries would heal as well.
Lady Morgana would remove O'Neill from the table before that could happen, however, he was sure of it. Why waste the energy on something that would heal easily enough on its own? Besides, she would want O'Neill awake and alert for the show she was to perform. O'Neill's friends were returning tomorrow evening. She would want him there to see just how much she had taken from him.
Egan reached out cautiously with his hand, placing it lightly on O'Neill's arm, carefully avoiding the purple bruises and red welts. O'Neill's skin was dry to the touch, his eyes sunken and dark. A tube ran from the table into O'Neill's arm, pumping some unknown fluid into his veins. Apparently, Lady Morgana wasn't done with him yet. She knew O'Neill was suffering greatly from dehydration, in addition to his obvious physical injuries. The fluid was her one concession. Egan was sure, however, there was something extra in the liquid—probably a sedative or one of her more potent herbs that affected the mind.
He shuddered slightly, pulling his cloak tighter around his body. The mind, he thought, and its unfathomable depths. The very soul of a person resides there. She easily and effortlessly altered it, playing with it like a toy. How much of his mind was left? Egan sighed; realizing that nothing he could do would save this man. Never would he be the man that he once was. She truly had to be a god in order to do such things—unless she was the devil.
Egan took one last look at O'Neill before turning to leave. He didn't want to be found here. It was bad enough that he had to face O'Neill's friends tomorrow, fully knowing the anguish O'Neill had experienced—and what he knew was yet to come.
Egan had a message to deliver to Lady Morgana and he had delayed long enough. Climbing the narrow stairs back to the main passages he said a silent prayer to the gods for himself and the man he left behind.
XXXXXXXXXXA hand caressing his face and running through his hair brought Jack O'Neill back to his senses. He tried to brush the hand away, but his arm wouldn't cooperate—the same way a brick doesn't float in the air.
Confused, he opened his eyes, blinking furiously against the glare of the lights overhead, trying to clear them. Moments later, Lady Morgana's smiling face came into focus, hovering above him.
"Good morning, my pet," she purred, her green eyes full of mirth. "Did you sleep well?"
"What?" he murmured, his mind refusing to engage. He tried to move his arm again, but for some reason he couldn't fathom, it wasn't behaving itself. Deep down, he knew it should move. It had moved in the past and he knew it should be able to move in the present. He closed his eyes, trying to remember, trying to figure out why his body parts weren't working like he knew they should.
He wiggled his fingers and he thought they responded—a little sluggish, but they moved. Check. Fingers moved. Now onto the wrist, he thought. It seemed that that was where some of the confusion set in. That body part didn't want to cooperate. For some reason, his movement ended there. He gave up trying to figure it out—the thinking was just compounding his headache. Instead, he opened his eyes. Lady Morgana's piercing green eyes stared back at him. He tried to ask what was going on, but his cottony dry mouth wasn't working either and, from the looks of it, she wasn't about ready to offer any assistance. He tried again and got out a croak of a question.
"What happened?" He raised his head a few inches, permitting a brief glance at himself. Apparently, he was secured, quite well by the looks of it, to whatever he was lying on. Something about his predicament rang a bell, but it still wasn't connecting. Apparently, he was a few quarts low right now—mentally speaking.
"You have been resting, my pet, for the better part of three days, after a most eventful night," she said, smiling brightly.
His eyes widened briefly, but she continued. "I have just been informed that we shall have some guests tomorrow and I wanted to make sure that you would be prepared to join us for this special occasion. How are you feeling?"
O'Neill tried unsuccessfully to moisten his lips, croaking out a one-word answer. "Confused."
"I can understand that. You've been through quite an ordeal."
He tried glancing down the length of his body once again, but wasn't able to get his head off the slab. He was tired.
"Why?" he mumbled. Lady Morgana got the gist of his question, her hands still caressing his head.
"You were not as cooperative as I would have liked, but that...changed as the evening progressed. I have new clothes and some water for you if you like."
He nodded as best he could. Things were still pretty hazy, but water sounded like a good idea. She stood and paced around to the other side of the table and pressed a few controls. The restraints melted back into the table and, less than a minute later, she was helping him sit up. The room spun and he had to close his eyes to settle his stomach. A few minutes passed and he felt a cup being pressed into his hand. He gripped it weakly, almost dropping it. Lady Morgana's fingers closed over his and she helped him bring the cup to his mouth. He started gulping the water, but she pulled it back with a quiet warning, "Slowly, my pet. Slowly. You are weak and need every drop, but you must take it slow."
He nodded his understanding, keeping his eyes half-closed. It was easier to focus that way. It cut down the double images to just three or so. Everything hurt, but for some reason, he wasn't surprised.
She tipped the cup up against his lips again and he took a few more sips before she pulled it away. This time he didn't protest.
"Now, let's get you cleaned up a little bit. We can't have you meeting our guests covered in blood, now can we?" He gazed at her, his brown eyes hazy and unfocused. His brain was still on vacation. "My pet, can you stand?"
He nodded half-heartedly, but found himself in a pile at her feet only seconds after she helped him off the table, with no recollection of how he got there. Intense pains ripped through his body, his muscles stiff and tense. He groaned and clutched his abdomen. He didn't see Morgana's eyes flash in anger.
"Turlough," she called, and moments later, a tall figure entered the room.
"Yes, my Lady?"
"Please take him to the bath chamber on this level and prepare him. Destroy his clothes and bring me the metal he wears around his neck," she ordered, stepping carefully around the prone and moaning figure at her feet.
"Yes, my Lady," Turlough said, inclining his head in submission.
She turned just as she reached the door. "Be careful with him. He is still feeling the effects of our session. While the broken bones are most likely healed, the contusions and trauma to his body were extensive. While you wait, make sure he continues to drink the water I provided him, but I warn you, do not drink it yourself."
XXXXXXXXXXTurlough bowed deeply to his Mistress, his Lord's wife, and his high priestess. Whatever she willed, would be done. "Yes, my Lady."
A swish of fabric against the door and she was gone. Turlough turned to the man lying on the floor before him—curled up in a fetal position and barely conscious. He gently touched a shoulder and the man jerked awake. His eyes flew open, but were unfocused.
"O'Neill, I must move you to the bathing chamber. This will be painful."
A moment passed before a soft reply was heard. "Yeah, I know. But, oh God, it hurts."
O'Neill was far more lucid than Turlough had thought possible. All other men had been far gone by this time, barely sane. This one was different, just as Lady Morgana had said on the evening of Samhain, the night of the feast. "Can you walk?"
Again, several moments passed before O'Neill replied. "I...I...don't know. Can try," he whispered. Sweat dotted his brow up near the hairline, glistening against his waxy skin.
Turlough leaned down to grasp O'Neill under his left arm and helped lever him up. O'Neill swayed dangerously on his feet, his already pale skin getting whiter by the minute. Turlough quickly swept his arm around the older warrior, steadying him. "Are you able to walk?"
"Oh yeah, just peachy," O'Neill stated, breathless. His eyelids were clamped tightly together, the crease in his forehead deep. "Let's go, before I can't move."
Turlough walked slowly, supporting the man at his side and guiding him down the hall, past the dungeon that had become O'Neill's home.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the end of the short hallway and Turlough eased O'Neill down to rest with his back against the stone wall, just inside the door. Turlough moved quickly to the sunken stone tub turning the valves to allow water to flow. It wasn't hot—lukewarm at best, Turlough realized. It was better than nothing.
He glanced back to O'Neill, who was still sitting upright against the wall, although he was sweating and his hands were shaking. O'Neill was awake, though Turlough didn't know how. O'Neill glanced up at him through half-closed eyes.
"Sorry about your outfit," O'Neill mumbled, barely above a whisper.
Turlough glanced down at himself, noticing the blood stains on his tunic for the first time. "It will wash," was all he said before he knelt down in front of the trembling man. "I must get you undressed and into the bath. Will you allow me to help you?"
To Turlough's surprise, a wry smile appeared on the warrior's face before him and a chuckle found its way to his throat. Apparently, O'Neill's mental functions were returning. "Didn't think we were that close, but it's not like I have much choice in the matter."
"No, you do not," Turlough agreed, offering a hesitant smile in return. "I have seen others before you and I am obligated to offer you this courtesy, warrior to warrior."
O'Neill raised his head, squinting to focus his eyes on Turlough's face. "Mano a mano, huh?" When he saw Turlough's confused expression, he continued with an exasperated sigh. "Never mind. 'preciate the thought, though." O'Neill closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. To Turlough it seemed as if O'Neill drew on some deep well of inner strength, for when he opened his eyes a few moments later, a small glimmer of something—strength, power, intensity—could be seen. Exactly what it was that Turlough saw, he couldn't be sure. While the sweating and shaking had stopped, Turlough knew O'Neill was far from recovered.
"Would it be possible to get some room service in this place?"
This warrior—this stranger from a distant planet—was unlike anyone he had ever known. Room service? Turlough thought, but realized the context as O'Neill tried to moisten his dry cracking lips.
"Of course. Lady Morgana left some refreshment for you and I have been instructed to see that you partake of it." Turlough rose quickly, stepping over to the sideboard where a pitcher and glass sat. Pouring a tumbler-full of the liquid—a weak tea of sorts—he knelt once again next to O'Neill and helped him drink deeply from the glass.
Once O'Neill's thirst was quenched, O'Neill rested his head against the wall with a satisfied smile on his face. "Oh, that was good."
"It should be. Lady Morgana prepared it especially for you."
"What?" O'Neill's eyes opened quickly, finding Turlough's face. This time those brown eyes were focused, searching out information.
"Yes. They contain some herbs to aid in your recovery. You must be well enough to attend the gathering tomorrow. She has ordered it."
"Has she now?" O'Neill asked, but Turlough knew he wasn't expecting an answer. Turlough glanced back at the stone tub, noticing the water was nearly deep enough.
"O'Neill, I have clean clothes for you but I must bathe you and try to clean some of your wounds. Will you permit me? The bath is ready."
O'Neill looked like he was going to protest, but a few moments passed and he nodded his head, accepting the offer. "Sure. What have I got to lose at this point?" He leaned forward and tried to pull his shirt over his head, but ended up moaning in pain as his bruises made themselves known. "Oh...damn, that hurts," he muttered.
"Let me, O'Neill," Turlough said, moving closer to grasp the hem of O'Neill's shirt in his hands. He carefully guided the garment off the Colonel's aching body with only a few muttered curses on the part of O'Neill. "That wasn't so bad," Turlough said, dropping the bloodied shirt in a heap and turning to close the valve on the tub.
"Sure it wasn't—for you," O'Neill said, his teeth firmly fixed on his bottom lip. If he bit down any harder, Turlough was sure O'Neill would break the skin.
"I must remove the rest of your clothing before you can relax in the bath. You are only prolonging the process."
"I know, I know," O'Neill said, absently rubbing a hand across his face. "Get on with it already."
Working quickly and carefully, Turlough was able to remove the remainder of O'Neill's tattered clothing with a minimum of comments from O'Neill. At one point Turlough thought O'Neill had passed out again, but one glare from the pain-filled brown eyes was enough to convince Turlough to hurry.
He couldn't remove the hostage chain—only Lady Morgana could—so when he was done with the clothes, he carefully helped O'Neill to the sunken tub and eased him into the lukewarm water. As his limbs became weightless in the water, an expression of contentment and peace passed quickly across O'Neill's face. His sigh of relief echoed throughout the small room.
Leaning with his head against the side of the tub, O'Neill opened an eye to look at Turlough. "Can you give me a minute before you start anything?"
"Certainly. Do you require another drink?"
"Only if you can find me a cold beer."
Turlough frowned. "I do not know of this beer to which you refer. Would you prefer more of the tea Lady Morgana left you?"
O'Neill sighed, his eye sliding shut once again. "Sure. That'll be fine."
Turlough moved to the sideboard, but O'Neill's voice stopped him mid-pour. "What does she want with me?"
He turned back and found O'Neill looking directly at him, his brown eyes lucid and penetrating. The lines on his face were deep, etched with pain and exhaustion. His skin was pale and his eye sockets dark and sunken, but the eyes, the eyes were clear and as hard as the stones around them.
Turlough turned back to his task, choosing his words carefully. "The truth."
"What truth?" O'Neill huffed.
"Lady Morgana is only trying to aid her people." He turned back to O'Neill, a now-full glass in hand.
"But, what does she want with me?"
Turlough handed him the glass and watched him drink deeply, finishing the tumbler in one swift swallow. "She wants your expertise. She admires your strength, your loyalty, your freedom, your—"
"Freedom?"
"Yes." Turlough sat down with his legs crossed beside the tub's ledge.
"Why does she admire my freedom? Isn't she free?"
"Not in the true sense of the word, O'Neill. She is tied to the land, to this people. She is our high priestess and she will forever lead us and guide us. You have seen things and experienced things others can only imagine. She desires this knowledge to guide her people as we enter the new phase of our life journey."
"Why can't your beloved Lord do this for her?" Turlough could feel the disgust and displeasure dripping from O'Neill's words.
"He has not traveled through the stone portal. You have."
"Okay, I'll give you that, but what's stopping her from using it?"
"She has tried," admitted Turlough with a half-shrug. "But was...unsuccessful. She lay unconscious for two nights after she tried to access the portal."
"Unconscious? How? Did she try to hot-wire the DHD?"
"She but touched the device standing before the stone ring and it rendered her unconscious. No one will go near it—even the welcoming parties will not touch it."
"Go figure," O'Neill muttered, his eyelids starting to droop.
"Let me clean you and get you dressed and your cuts bandaged. Then you can rest," Turlough said, reaching for a bar of soap and a cloth.
"Fine," O'Neill said, leaning his head back and letting his eyes close. It was apparent that Lady Morgana's tea was working. If he didn't hurry, O'Neill would be asleep before he finished—a dead weight. At least now he would get some help from the man himself. Even though he was weak, it was something.
"This will hurt."
"I know. Just do it."
"Very well," Turlough said and got to work. He worked quickly, efficiently, but by the time Turlough was finished with O'Neill—washed, dried, dressed, and bandaged—O'Neill was barely able to keep his eyes open. The tea was working too well, Turlough thought as he watched the warrior try to keep his head from drooping onto his chest.
"O'Neill, I must move you once again."
"Huh?" O'Neill asked, trying to pry his eyelids open. What Turlough could see of O'Neill's eyes were unfocused and clouded.
"I must move you to the other room. Can you walk?"
"Sure. Course I can," came the reply a few beats later as he made a half-hearted attempt to rise to his feet. Turlough's grip under O'Neill's arm was the only thing that kept him from falling over. Snaking an arm around O'Neill's shoulders, Turlough edged him back down the hallway to the small dungeon room that had become his home. A straw mat had been laid on the floor along the rear wall and a woolen blanket was folded at one end. Turlough eased O'Neill down on the mat and arranged the blanket over the shivering form. O'Neill was asleep before his head touched the mat.
Turlough deftly lifted the metal tags from around O'Neill's neck and concealed the handful of shiny metal in a pocket.
After clipping the end of the hostage chain to the hook on the wall, Turlough moved to collect a secondary water pitcher and glass from the bathing chamber and placed them within reach in case O'Neill woke during the night and needed something to quench his thirst.
This warrior was unique and it pained Turlough to see him in such a state. However, whatever his Lady willed, it would be done—even if it involved the death of one stubborn warrior.
XXXXXXXXXX
Lady Morgana was combing out her long red hair when there was a soft tap at her door. She was expecting the sound, and instead of turning, simply called out. "Come."
She heard, rather than saw, Turlough shuffle into her suite of rooms. He came to a stop several feet from her, unsure what to do. When he remained silent, she knew that she would have to coax him to speak up. She stopped her nightly routine and turned to her faithful servant, eyeing him carefully. She had told him to report to her immediately upon finishing his task with O'Neill and he had apparently taken her words literally, not even stopping to change from his blood stained and damp garments.
These people needed her guidance and direction badly. If she weren't here to guide and protect them, who knew how backward they would have become. They barely understood the concepts of respect and honor and the importance of personal appearance. When approaching people, such as herself, they needed to have respect and honor which should have been reflected in their clothing and their appearance. She sighed softly. Would they ever learn?
"Turlough, did you do what I asked of you?"
"Yes, my Lady," Turlough said, bowing slightly. At least he remembered his manners. "My Lady, I have disposed of his clothing as you requested and I have brought you the metal chain O'Neill wore around his neck."
She nodded her assent, allowing Turlough to approach. He lightly dropped the chain and tags into her outstretched hand. She examined them briefly before turning her gaze back to Turlough, who had stepped back to a more respectable distance.
"Very good, Turlough. How is he?"
"He is sleeping, my Lady. He was very cooperative with my ministrations this night."
"Good." She turned back to the mirror before her and picked up her comb once again. "Turlough. Please make yourself available in the morning. I have an assignment for you."
"Yes, my Lady," Turlough said, bowing deeply. "Good night, my Lady. May you have pleasant dreams."
The sound of Turlough's retreating footsteps and the click of the closing door brought a smile to Morgana's face. She was close. She was very close. Turlough's report had convinced her. It wouldn't be long until she started calling O'Neill her beloved.