A jumper came gently to rest on the sand. Medical kit in tow, Carson scrambled out of the hatch almost the instant the ship touched ground and dropped to the ground at Rodney's side. He only glanced back at Teyla and Ford once as he jerked the kit open, but they could see that his face was ashen.

"What happened?" asked Ford sharply.

"I'd rather not know," Carson told him grimly without looking around. "Major Sheppard doesn't look injured at all. I can't tell you anything about him until we get him back to Atlantis. As for Rodney—" As he spoke, he was already pulling out bandages and applying them as best he could.

Teyla took a step forward to see over his shoulder and gasped, pressing both hands against her mouth.

Coming up behind her, Ford swallowed hard. Rodney's torso had been reduced to a collection of ugly gashes, most of which were still bleeding freely. The few shreds left of his shirt were soaked with blood. There was even a nasty-looking cut neatly placed across his throat. And then Carson rolled him over, and they saw the worst of it: Rodney's left side had been sliced open. Blood was visibly streaming from the wound.

Carson began packing in cotton wadding as quickly as he could. "This'll have to hold until we get back. Bloody miracle," he added under his breath.

"Miracle?" Teyla echoed faintly. "How so?"

"The sword burned him as it cut," Carson said absently, concentrating on his bandaging. "If that'd been metal cutting him, he would've bled dry by the time we got here."

-----

The world was hazy. Warm, and snug, and very hazy indeed, and Rodney hoped it was going to stay that way for a while, but he thought he might try opening his eyes for a minute, just to see what it was like. It was really bright, for one thing, and he was just deciding that waking up had been a crappy idea when most of the light was blocked out by a face that was impossible to recognize by itself but which was speaking with an all too recognizable accent. "Don't try to talk, Rodney," it was saying. "Your neck's hurt."

But he had to speak anyway. The question had to be asked, even though he couldn't quite remember why. "Where's John?" Rodney forced out.

The words came out barely as a whisper, but Carson understood, even though he hesitated before answering. "He's here," he said at last.

Satisfied, Rodney fell back asleep before he could wonder why Carson had looked so sad when he'd mentioned John.

-----

He woke up again a while later, a little more alert this time, and listened in silence, staring at the ceiling as Carson explained exactly what was wrong and how long it would take (a very long time, apparently) to get better. As a matter of fact, it turned out that he was going to spend a hell of a lot of time staring at the ceiling for the next couple of days—a goodly portion of him was apparently held together by sutures and staples right now—so Rodney didn't particularly mind that he was on a mind-boggling number of medications that were making him sleep eighteen to twenty hours a day. It was better than staring at the infirmary ceiling and being talked at by people he could identify only by voice—Ford, Elizabeth, Carson, Teyla, Zelenka. Even Kavanaugh came to see him once, for some reason known only to himself.

But not John. John never came.

After a day or two, it finally occurred to someone to explain to Rodney that John couldn't talk to anyone right now. It was then that the nightmares began, and so much shit was being pumped into him already that Carson didn't dare give him any tranquilizers to get rid of them. Even the infirmary ceiling (and the infirmary had one damn ugly ceiling) was preferable to being hacked up all over again. Or to hacking John up instead—he had that dream once or twice, too, and both times he woke up to find himself restrained because he'd been thrashing around hard enough to risk ripping the staples out of his side.

Eventually—he was told it had been four days, but he had no way of verifying that—a nurse came along with Carson and Rodney was told that he was going to be helped out of bed. Even though he suspected his legs had been amputated and replaced with prosthetic spaghetti, Rodney was sufficiently encouraged by the thought of using a real bathroom for the first time in days that he managed reasonably well getting there. Getting back to bed was a different story altogether, however, and by the time they were halfway back he wasn't sure he could get any further. Then he lifted his head a little and saw, for the first time, that curtains had been drawn around the bed next to his as well.

Rodney stopped in his tracks. "Is that John?" he rasped. He could talk now, but not much; it hurt like hell. "I want to see him."

Carson made a noise that sounded as if he were about to object, but it died away as he saw the intensity of the concern on Rodney's face. "Fine," he conceded. "For one minute. And then I want you back in bed."

They helped Rodney to a chair at John's bedside. The nurse went away. "One minute," Carson reminded him sharply, and then left as well, drawing the curtains shut again behind him.

John was very still, and very pale, except for a large bruise over his right eye that had probably been Rodney's doing. But the face was unquestionably John's. The Swordbearer, whoever and whatever he had been, was gone.

Rodney just sat there and looked. He couldn't think of anything to say; nothing seemed to fit. Silence didn't seem right either, but he didn't know what to do about it. Something wet was rolling down his cheek, and he didn't know what to do about that either.

He kissed his fingertips lightly and then pressed them against John's, dampening John's lips slightly with a lone teardrop.

--------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am greatly shamed by my total inability to write Carson's dialogue properly. Sorry.

Ubergratitude to mikasteelell, who not only comprehended exactly how screwed Rodney was but proceeded to explain it to me in considerable detail (including the medical benefits of being injured by energy weapons). Without her, this chapter would've had massive issues.

Yes, I like describing large quantities of blood. Let me have my fun, will ya?